Mini croissants with apples, honey and cinnamon

 

Today I was on the train. And from there I made a quick and summary account of the hours of my – almost – quarter of a century passed over the blue seats.
What then to me to travel by train is always liked. The train is the inexhaustible container of human types, all concentrated in one carriage.
Before Turin adopted me, I was a commuter of those early birds, a 6.37 train, at the dark hour of the solitary. But I was referring to the return, around 18.30. From my corner I looked at the humanity that unrolled itself before my eyes, like a kaleidoscope made of bizarre shapes and colors.
There is what you call by videoconference making you participate in the fact that tonight does not know whether to go to the party or not, yet Marta is a strafiga and I have to do.
There is what cares and you sleep long all the way, maybe losing his stop.
There is the devotee of the paper, who carries in the bag the 600-page brick around the city, just to enjoy it at the end of the day, sunk in the seat.
There’s what gets on the train to find someone to tell his life, for the rest of the trip.
There is that which is not centered, lives in the balance between his two worlds and occasionally screams, while I wonder where he is and what he feels, according to him.