Brothers and sisters are growing up, friends are finding a job, other friends with alcoholic problems are disappeared. Sometimes I feel that living alone, working and studying was a way to somewhere, but I still remember the fake inherent of the independence I lived once. The emancipation is a nightmare. The home’s dream an illusion. An option, instead, is the step by step method. You learn to cook, I find a translation’s work. You write a letter, I clean the desk. We read a poem, and I help my mother. You liked and I don’t forget the time when projections were communicative. I’m honored by the weather. Does the melancholy be that feeling?