It’s morning, isn’t it? Yeah, the classic morning to think, where to consider facts and circumstances. The very time where to get sunk, never a part of my daily game.

First task is to have a look at my bridge. You what? I’m sure you’re asking. My bridge.

I was never and currently am not fond of the present. I will explain better. I never trust the modernity and the stuff it represents, in a blatant and insidious way. I always feel the need to escape this nightmare, which is my personal view of the present. Thus, I enter my bridge, and I’m sure I will be pleased by the extra dimension. Early seventies are typically the place where I land.

Am I delirious? Not at all. How can I enter a bridge? Let me tell you.

Now, at my bedroom’s window, on a sunny day, I’m looking at the path in the garden where my bridge is parked. Yes parked. What I call my bridge is a 1970 green and black Plymouth Cuda. An American muscle car. Almost impossible to find here. I found it in a friend’s father barn, in the countryside. Apparently, my friend’s pop used to live in the States. Then he came back here on the island, choosing the splendid countryside for his retirement, and brought here the only tantrum he allowed himself to have.

The man gave up the car in the barn after retiring. He found it difficult to drive with the opposite side steering wheel, and he thought the car had something weird, demonic. His family treated it as an initial manifestation of dementia. They didn’t know whether or not it was true, but I can confirm his theory. For this reason, the son who firmly believed the old man’s superstitions left me the car almost for free.

After the restoration, I drove it with the enthusiasm of a kid at a fun park. Powerful, noisy and with a blade shape. A rocket. Everybody had their heads twisted in my wake. 

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