Heavy mists dripping over the shoulders of the ground beneath my feet are playing on the melancholy strings of autumn. Tiny spider’s web threads are casting back gleams of weaker sun rays in the air. Cinderella is feeding birds in the back yard. Children’s laugh is running down the streets of the town chased by funny smiling faces and the pumpkin zest is sprinkled by the Master of the Time light-fingered hand. Not even a vague image of any Prince Charming in the distant sight and the shabby girl is not going to the Ball. Not the appropriate time for such events, I guess. Moreover, any self-respecting average pumpkin is already booked to be at your disposal, unless you suddenly fall into the mainstream fruit carving trends...Non lo so.
Wild imagination is transforming a pumpkin into a fancy carriage in the back of my mind. At the front foyer of this same mind I am prepared to admit that The Master of Time is invincible. His long blue hair moves in a sophisticated ballet dance getting me closer to the frosty breath of the Ice Kingdom. The river is going to be clutched in frozen waters and the slender needles of the icicles are going to pin my breath like a butterfly under a glass display to promote FEAR. Is there anybody out there who really cares if the shabby girl is (not)going to be the Princess at the The Ball as there are no pumpkins left to serve the needs of a decent carriage to be waited for by a decent Prince? Nor a lassie to make a decent Princess too.
Francesca, resta qui...
Bored. The entertainment hit the ceiling and reaching extinction needs some refreshment...new blood? Raspberry juice will do. The chocolate isn't sweet any more and the cookies are over burnt. Taking my head off before the very eyes of a wide public won't necessary cause the wanted effect. Wanted? Not sure what is wanted anymore. More fun? Bigger monsters? The scariest scares? Packed and ready to go.
Setting my mind at ease I remembered that here we play bare feet on preheated coals and this is a common understanding of the playing with the fire saying. Pumpkins are optional. The Time is inevitable and the Cinderella babes from my block perform a Famme Fatale ritual dance hugged in black lace and heavy Oriental scents. My eyes instinctively seeking for a pumpkin as one possible way out are getting tired and the lids of my soul are growing weary. It's an old man's case. It's about the Master of Time taking his due, as all beauty must die at least once a year. And of time...the author was perfectly calm and in sound reason before getting this column to the press.
@penderis 