It looks like the sea at dawn.

For several years, I suffered from insomnia, and not even the sea could break my 4 a.m. awakening. So I would toss and turn in bed for a while, and at a decent hour, I would walk along the beach to the tower at the mouth of the Adige River and scan the horizon and the pine forest behind me. Those were years of reworking, and I had drawn a mental map that assigned the past, the present and, to the unexplored ones, the future to the inlets. The beaches of the past resembled those where I used to play in the water with my brothers: those of the freedom of camping and endless summer. The beaches of the present were the scenes I was experiencing at that moment: my children were me and my brothers, and I watched them tiredly from the shore, sitting on a folded towel and wearing a white cap. Sometimes I was overcome by an inexplicable anxiety, even though I was watching a very entertaining show. I have visited those of the future in recent years and, in fact, I could never have predicted the events.