About thirty years ago I had quite often recurring nightmares, to whom my smooth but angsty insomnia was due I guess.
The good thing about such those fearful nightmares was that there was no surprise effect. A bad thing about their repetitive nature was the I already knew what was going to happen and yet I couldn’t avoid going through.
One of them worst used to took place in a crowdy but happy St Marc Square, with my granny, when a bomb was discovered near her and my legs began to feel weak and my crying came out soundless.
In January 2019 thousand of people’s best option is to get into this hell, trying to transform the ending in an uncertain dream, many of them finish as my nightmares, but won’t wake up shouting.