For all I knew she was talking about pesto, the Italian woman sent her brunette daughter to converse with me instead, through the window of her kitchen. She spoke a little broken English, and asked me what I was doing on her house. Technically I wasn’t really on her house, I was clearly stood on some feeble aluminium sheets, some 200 feet above Milan on scaffolding. I answered her questions, occasionally staring down mindlessly at my dusty kicks, each small step sending chunks of concrete below, sharply clanging to the bottom.
Photo: Torre, Viale Monte Santo, Central Milan, Italy (2010) – with the Swiss Alps in teh distance.
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In other news, LastFm’s Extra Stats software makes my music rather wavy-like.
