Queue

Lots of tales are waiting to be written down, here or in any possibile page.
The flow of ideas and dreams and memories goes along with the flowing of writing, in my life.
When stuck in one of these, stuck everywhere.

It is one-way-ticket time and each point of the ride seems to cross amazing trajectories of which I touch, sadly, only one point, that is, nothing.

In the same way these few words are written here just as starting point for some imagination, without the ambition of saying anything.

Imagine the intricated trajectory of a person on this planet.
Do you think that the path drawn by an old lady walking along the streets of her little village is less complicated than the route of an intrepid traveler of the world?