Lunedi, 29 novembre 2004, ore 02,30. Dream. My father comes into the darkness of my bedroom, sits down on the edge of the bed. He sighs heavily, as in deep, drunk-enhanced sorrow.
“Johnny!” he says.
I know he has big news, which he doesn’t want to tell me, but has to. News I need to hear. “You can wake up gradually,” he says.
Then I’m awake in real life, breathing hard and my heart pounding.
* * *
Analysis: Maybe he just died. Came to say farewell. So what should I say to him?
How about: “Well, goodbye, then. You had more than one chance to work things out between us, but you didn’t. I was willing, but you weren’t. Good luck on your journey.”