There are times when I hate the job I chose, perhaps the only one I can do.
That would not be to inform, nor to promote the tourism of a place I love and which is now my home country, but to write, which arises from the need and the desire to tell that I have always had.
But at this moment I do not find the sense to tell, to explain, not to incite myself.
I do not feel like telling you how Eddy went "to dissolve in a comet, just enough not to feel the strange rhythm of life anymore," as Enzo Jannacci was singing.
Because Eddy is my neighbor, uncle Burbero, Ligurian and chubby, the one who quarreled with everyone and almost everyone in the end liked him well.
The one who wants to remain alone and alone is bored terribly.
What ages it makes you crap and you suck it if you tell him it's not true.
What comes to the pool while I take the swim every day and come from the "ponytail", what yesterday afternoon when I told him about old Titan who left us, he turned his eyes to the sky whispering "Hello Tizianino, expect me to arrive soon ".
Soon a fuck, I told you, you're 71 years old.
And we made the last laugh.
Eddy does not have anymore with anyone, maybe because of this he began to depress himself, to hate himself.
He went to the beach, almost every day.
But this time he did not go on foot with his usual stick.
He turned his nose toward the sea.
Not the sea of ​​Portofino where he grew up, but the Indian Ocean where he was aged, between a savannah and the other, between one curse and the other.
Buffalo Crazy, you did the last shit.
And even this time for some time I'll bring you bitterness, we will not talk anymore.
Then I'll love you again.

Edmund Buffa, said Eddy, was for twenty-five years the soul of Tusker Safaris of Malindi, carrying personally or sending savannahs to thousands of Italians and not.
And if I say "it was" it is because he has since withdrawn, as they say, for private life.
I've already written him alive and I intend to continue doing it.