The story seller

More than once, he got caught by the coils of a hug or something that was just a bit more intense than a branch in the backlight.

And the eyes who stared at him, standing quietly on the doorstep behind the flowers, were most of the times distant and gloomy.

He was a dreamer; the only clown in a moribund circus that ends the show with a hint of a bow and whispers in your ear a candid “with love”.

Doorbells, somewhere in Italy
doorbell, somewhere in Italy

Microfiction #6


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