It's a late evening in mid-autumn. You are about to finish another cigarette, standing on an unfamiliar balcony. A chilly wind is blowing. Your fingers are terribly cold. An empty bus is slowly creeping along the street in front of the house. You hide your hands in your pockets, casually fumble in the left one for a coin that reminds you of that very person. In one of the windows of the house across the street, you see an old woman in a terrycloth robe stirring the contents of a large frying pan. Your eyes water, either because of the wind or because of the memories. Outside the balcony door, a dozen people you don't know well are drinking wine from beautiful glasses. After a couple of rounds of dry red (and a shot of something stronger) your evening will finally become pleasant, as pleasant as a kokorocore mix for 5/8: radio.
