We all have somewhere to turn when melancholy reaches us and its claws wound our souls with the claw of a beast.

Mircea Eliade, one of the most privileged minds that Romania gave to the world, before his intellectuality was pitifully diluted in the toilets of the old Iron Curtain, also spoke of that place, which he called the ‘Sambô room’.

On the contrary, I see in the rooms, the equivalent of those sinister places that serve the purposes of the Crusaders of Reason, when they refer to them all those who do not agree with their psychological orthodoxy and prefer to avail themselves of their right to go. for free for the world, as uninhibited as the Madman of the Tarot.

Perhaps that is why autumn affects me too much, as they say that the moon does with the wolf and I see, in that simple bench, eternally anchored by the edge of a Stygian lagoon, the ideal place to let myself be carried away by that bad romantic, which some, contemptuously, consider to the reverie.

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