The City sleeps, indifferent and anaesthetised passes by the less fortunate as if they were useless objects beached on benches and pavements. And it happens to me, like almost everyone else, to ignore them, not seeing them asleep in the street in the enchanted and dangerous sleep they share with the rest of the city.
Instead, when I stop to look at them, and maybe take a photo, they seem to me the quintessence of the City, the sleeping distillate of the nightmare-generating sleep of reason.
 Or an omen to be treated, however, with a certain lightness and some dose of irony; like them one sleeps and dreams, closing one’s eyes to what is happening around us, without perceiving that one is on the same slippery slope: the dream until one wakes up is like a closed window through which one sees nothing.

And so even the suggestion of a wise Sicilian cat is cloaked in sarcastic ambiguity.
