A dozen years ago, I used to sit at this window with my morning coffee. And every morning a dishevelled old man from the palazzo opposite would appear at a window just out of view on the left of the photo. Still in his dressing gown, he would be holding a feather in his hand and looking furtively behind him. Satisfied that he wasn’t being followed, he would lean out of the window and ever so carefully let go of the feather. Then he would watch the feather spinning and floating downward, and when it landed on the canal a triumphant grin would split his face. About that time, a lady dressed like a maid or a nurse of some sort would take him by the arm and gently lead him away. It was probably a game he played in the same palazzo many decades ago when he was a rich little boy. Now he was a rich old man, reverted to childhood.
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