The Strings Of A Blinded Heart

For the fifth time this week, the morning sky is grey when I wake up. Strange, given that this time of the year, in mid-June, the brightness of Italian summers should kick in.

My hand shakes as I smoke a cigarette on my balcony, looking down at the quiet city. I’m nervous. I mean, as an over-thinker, I always am to some degree. But, more than on other days, today I feel like my heart could actually bust out of my rib cage.

Though, it’s only normal that I should feel like this. After all, today’s the day. The day Sergio, Mario and I would execute the plan: we would burn down the migrant camp.