La solita strada bianca come il sale
…
e poi mille strade grige come il fumo,
in un mondo di luci sentirsi nessuno[1]

Whenever tourists leave our little coastal towns, taking their noise, crowds and traffic with them, the shady narrow streets and stone squares are pervaded by a metaphysical void in the manner of de Chirico. That void seems to remember the fullness of life that only recently rushed through these streets, and even the Bura wind cannot blow away the urbanity of the emptied spaces. These stones are imprinted with lives, these simple gestures of anonymous builders are a store of memories and emotions, the architecture seems to be alive.