The brightness of the orange of Aperol Spritz (difficult to describe) spilled all over the train ticket (you remember the exact moment, the exact table, the exact smile), the ticket all soggy and you trying to explain to the ticket inspector that accidents happen (the exact look on his face) and how, sadly, the journey ended (don’t they all?) and, by the way, what was the point of letting it dry and using it as a bookmark for “Pinocchio” which you read, for the first time, in Italian, on that 16:40 Frecciarossa from Udine to Brescia, and how a Season’s Greetings card falling out of a magazine and the word pumpkin written by your three-year-old filling up an entire A4 sized sheet of copy paper have no place in this story (story, really?), whereas How to Make Paper Butterflies does, really does.
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