Enter Christmastime: A man dressed as Babbo Natale stops to look over the menu outside of ristorante di Ciro and Sons. He sucks on a cigarette as his poorly-shaven, gaunt façade moves up and down, scanning what he’s not too pleased to be reading, hence his blanch dismissal of and walking away from. The bells hung around his waist jingle with each step he takes, piercing the usual hum of the strade fiorentine. As I pass him, humming methodically yet jovially to myself the great hallowing trumpet line from Tomaso Albinoni’s Adagio in G minor, a be-hatted man hobbling the roughly-hewn precipice between sidewalk curb and cobble stoned street on a bicycle sings aloud, “Oh, the weather outside is frightful…”
I climb the stairs in a swirling square until I reach my door; I enter and drape my coat and green scarf (it’s my favorite scarf; that and my llama scarf) on the coat rack, then immediately go to the bathroom. After relieving myself I continue to my room. Turning the creaksome knob, I enter into bliss—if such a word can describe a single cube of space. The walls are stark and white. There is nothing in the room except for a chair and a lamp hanging from the ceiling. On one wall is scrawled a single word: NOTHING.
Resting on said chair is the very thing that is itself the only true reason for the chair being there in the first place; my trumpet (in other words: I have no use for the chair except as a seat for my horn when it is not in use). There’s no bed, either. I suffer from insomnia. Plus, when I am able to sleep, I am terribly disturbed by notes and words flying around my head like moths to a lamp. I have a strange affinity to moths.