Exil

Pitestiul e asemeni unei case mari, batranesti. Are camere si holuri familiare si reci. Miroase frumos, dar sub parfumul initial se simte un strop de amar si de mucegai. E genul de mucegai care nu se vede la microscop fiindca se agata de ganduri.

Pitestiul e orasul in care a murit mai mult decat o idee, e orasul – casa bantuita, in care a murit cineva drag.

Mi-e frica de tine, oras al dezamagirilor si al mortilor neanuntate, mi-e frica de farmecul tau si de gandul ca as putea, la orice colt de strada, sa intalnesc fantome.

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