It's almost midnight and, to have the full fall, it's too hot to sleep, the blows from the south penetrate through the grooves. It's about to arrive at midnight, the house is asleep and I'm not: on the bed, looking at the carpet, I'm thinking of those who, like me, look at the carpet in the middle of their lives. In fact, it has occurred to me that it's a little quarter of midnight, soon to midnight, at 0:00, zero dots, that crossroads between eagles and hopes, and then today it will be yesterday and tomorrow, today, a new day, perhaps different. The time comes when the world can fall into something new.

It gets to midnight. High, tomorrow will not be a new day, but a worsening and a more perverse version of the previous one. It's absorbent. Rental premiums will increase by 5%. In the society of the poor, as rationing bonds of the wartime, we'll get bills to pay for electricity, fuel checks, food tickets, because you can't live on personal work, and all of that to be accused of being assisted. A whispered metaverse voice: Isn't it desirable to live from force itself?

It will reach midnight and tomorrow is not a new day, but a continuation of what it is today. I have in my head the voice of Melody Gardot, in a murmur of your heart is as black as night and in the ranch, in the adjacent house, they are making a bad death, they share with all the neighbors the themes of Claude Francois. They say that young generations hear more and more dead artists and end up less than previous ones; they refer to eco-anxiety, the need for performance.

Midnight. Consumption and wealth should not interfere at all. And scarcity, rarity, unavailability are becoming the norm. And above all 49.3. Rather than temperature, it is the fever of constitutionalized violence. “If you don’t have bread, eat pastiza,” he thought they cut his head. If today's people are in favor of laws, can something happen tomorrow?

In every aspect, people make coming out Bolshevik ekolo, dreaming quiet mornings, not dreaming the great day, committing locally, abandoning the idea of going to pick up the dollies to the goat. It's not a matter of decade, it's not a matter of year. The fabrics that our ancestors told us for our protection are allowed everywhere. We have been running for 40 years, the Potemkinas are being built, and we are no longer seduced by anything.

It's half a night, ttanko. When my son has told me in the afternoon the concern for his future, I have not been able to answer. And when he asked me if I do not have to strike tomorrow, I too, of course, answered him, that he should, that we all need him, that we should lift him up and have him, because, if not, everything is organized to maintain, guarantee, increase injustice.

It goes without saying. Yes? Yes. Perhaps the question is not whether to go on strike, but how long, and to see how many more things we had full legitimacy to do, from the legal point of view punishable but justified from the point of view of humanity.
I mean, it went to midnight. Tomorrow will not be another day, not another morning or another strike, tomorrow should begin the first day of the conquest of dignity. What it was today has become yesterday and tomorrow, today, new and similar. The world could fall into something new.