Dai che fai

It was as if the old courtyard suddenly came alive under the light of the neon windows. The stone walls remember voices, the ringing of doorbells, and the bass from phones that were once used to show off like muscles. The air is filled with the same boredom, the same sleepless tenderness, only instead of cigarette smoke, there are memories of nights when everything seemed eternal. Music rolls through the neighbourhood, touching windows, stirring the keys of a piano left in someone's kitchen. Where they used to dream of escaping, they are now just trying to breathe a little more freely. And it all sounds not like nostalgia, but like a quiet protest against growing up: with a taste of dust, the ringing of glass, and laughter that doesn't want to end.