All aboard. Here we are, we three, walking under the golden sun of Rome, on the traces of history, trimmed by the joys of modern times. Cars coming and going, and in the Piazza Venezia, raise you eyes to catch a glimpse of Medusa in the eternal dance of greek mith which is always, us unaware, alive and kicking; off we go to admire the one and only dome of Sant'Ivo alla Sapienza, that spirals up above in a sky the colour of the mantle of the Madonna, like the sacred kundalini; a breathtaking masterpiece of Francesco Borromini. But because we are made of flesh too, a coffee in Sant'Eustachio is what is more than needed. Hurray! Then, off to paradise, in the secret garden of Livia, Augusto's spouse, which is a perfect joy to the eye and to the spirit if only one can leave behind the touristic wave and find Ariadne'd thread, in pure silence, in the flow of the eternal river.
Time to go, time to go home. Up above and down again to earth, when, head in the air, deep in my reveries, I bump on someone on the road. "Sorry!", I say and he replies: "It's nothing". Then, looking straight in my eyes, he continues: "I don't know, but I'd love to be where you are..." In the flow of the river, hand in hand with Dyonisus...