The first few times, it hurt. Now I smile. I smiled this time too. And it occurred to me that there has probably been stuff of mine online for almost 30 years. I did a quick search and... yes, I found traces of my posts on public mailing lists (still indexed) as far back as 1997. I was talking about mobile phones and Linux, and my writing style was similar to the one I have today. But they are fragments, disconnected sentences, often replies to threads. So I decided to dig further, trying to use publicly accessible resources (that is, not my private e-mails).

The "oldest" trace of something sufficiently long (and cited by others, too) dates back to 2002. I still have the LaTeX source, as well as the PDF, but I downloaded it again from the Wayback Machine anyway. It was an analysis of intrusion detection tools and techniques, and that document carries a special date. It was my birthday, and it had been prepared for something very important. But I'll talk about that in another post.

As soon as I started reading, I smiled: partly for the structure, partly for the English (clearly translated quite literally from Italian, something that still happens often today - albeit on a different scale). But the best part came on page 13.

I was explaining the Anomaly Detection Model. First I described the idea: learn the normal behaviour of a user and consider deviations suspicious. Then I summed up the paradox in one sentence, even highlighted:

"Everything which has not been seen previously is dangerous."

And immediately afterwards I describe its main flaw: "The high false alarm rate is generally cited as the main drawback". I also explain why: training cannot necessarily cover all legitimate behaviour, behaviour changes over time, and this can produce more false alarms.

A small comparison.

A human detector says: "He uses this structure." "He makes this kind of list." "He writes therefore, overall, it depends." "This pattern looks like an LLM."

I, in 2002, was reflecting: an anomaly with respect to the model is not necessarily an intrusion. If you treat everything that doesn't match your model as dangerous, you produce false alarms.

The conceptual similarity is almost perfect.

But that didn't answer my question: how did I write, back then? I went back and started reading again, this time to understand some details of a formal nature. And something, as I suspected, was already there. "Too many to be listed, too many to be solved." And the comment: "Nobody said that being a System Administrator is an easy job...that's why I like it!".

Several parts, in fact, match many of the stylistic clichés that today are associated with ChatGPT. Not so much the single words, but the way I tried to organise and explain what I had in mind. Probably my mind is an LLM. I need to ask my parents whether I was vibe-conceived.

For example, I already had a certain tendency to take a problem and break it down neatly. On page 5 I wrote "We can sum up this way:" and split the problem into three steps: Prevent intrusions, Detect the intruder, Response to intrusions. And, of course, I didn't stop at three little headings: for each one I explained what I meant, what could go wrong and what the exceptions were. On page 4 I did even better: "So, to sum up, firewall approach has some pros and some cons", followed by two sections, Pros and Cons. In short: take a topic, split it into pieces, analyse the advantages, analyse the disadvantages and then draw the conclusions. Sound familiar?

There was another thing that, evidently, already belonged to me: the difficulty in giving absolute answers. Is a firewall useful? Yes, but. Is a very restrictive policy more secure? Yes, but. Does a permissive one cause fewer problems for users? Yes, but. On page 3 I talked about the need to find "a compromise between security and usability" and, a few pages later, I turned this idea into a classification: Strict policy, Permissive policy, Balanced policy and even Perfect policy, with false positives, false negatives and practical consequences thrown in. Evidently my love for "it depends" has rather deep roots. Even then I understood that there is no absolute answer to every question. Apart from 42, of course.

The way of explaining was already that one, too. "Let's explain it in more detail". "In other words...". "For example...". First I introduced a concept, then I tried to say it in another way, then I added an example. And, as soon as I risked having oversimplified, I added the clarification. On page 12, after building a table with the "normal" behaviours of System Administrator, Boss, Secretary, Manager and Programmer, I hurried to specify: "This is of course a rather general example. Real profiles deal with more precise categories...". Generalisation, example, caveat.

And I already liked closing a long explanation with a short sentence that tried to sum it up. That is exactly what happens on page 13: "In short, this is the paranoid approach:", followed by "Everything which has not been seen previously is dangerous.". A sort of takeaway, to use a term that at the time I would probably never have used. But, immediately afterwards, here comes the counterweight again: the main problem of that approach is the high number of false alarms. So: explanation, summary, punchline, "yes, but...".

The same scheme reappears when I talk about SYN floods. I take a concrete case, describe how it works, pull out the elements that make it recognisable and then generalise: "In a similar manner indications of other attacks can be figured out." And throughout the document I keep leaving road signs for the reader: "The basic idea is the following", "As you can see", "Have a look at table 2", "We can sum up this way", "In short", "For example". I wasn't just explaining something: I evidently felt the need to explain where I was going while I was explaining it.

Then there is the general structure: parts, subparts, numbers, lists, tables, diagrams, classifications. But here I would be unfair to poor 2002 Stefano: it was a technical document, written by a Computer Science student who, in that period, read far more manuals, papers and technical books than novels. It was fairly inevitable that it would be structured that way. More bits and less narrative, in my mind. But also more pizzas, and this, perhaps, was the beauty of youth.

The interesting thing, though, is that this way of reasoning didn't stay confined to a university paper. I find it again later, when I no longer had to respect any academic structure and was simply writing on my blog. And that's where it starts getting even funnier, because I decided to carry on. I was enjoying myself. A search born out of curiosity that became, along the way, a journey into my past.

So I thought of my Italian blog, very active in its first years (2006-2009), with other bursts of publishing afterwards. Mainly, until 2018. Well before LLMs arrived and, I'll add, with posts that can also be verified on the Wayback Machine. While I was at it, I migrated the blog from Nikola to BSSG, with the idea of not ruling out writing there again. Maybe. If I find the time. Who knows...

So I read some of the more representative posts and, there too, I smiled, enjoying the journey. They are all in Italian, so I'll quote the originals and translate as I go.

The first is from 2006: Gli informatici, gli "informatici" e quelli che "ci capiscono" (IT people, "IT people" and those who "know about computers"). It's a scene that anyone doing this job has lived through: the neighbour's computer, three antivirus programs piled on top of each other, twelve minutes to boot and friend X, the one who "knows about computers". I build it as a back-and-forth: he says, I answer, he objects. "A quel punto..." ("At that point..."), and off we go again. Three times. In between there are the parentheses, the typos, the smileys and a demonstration that includes "due cicli di Krebs (che non c'entrano niente ma ci stanno bene)" - "two Krebs cycles (which have nothing to do with it but fit nicely)". Those, unmistakably, are mine. But the best part is the ending: I get summoned before a sort of improvised court, I explain everything in full detail and I get convicted anyway. The trial was already over. Even in 2006.

2008 was a prolific year. And, rereading it today, a textbook one.

In Cos'è il VOIP? (What is VOIP?) I proceed by dry statements, in bold: "VOIP means...", "Skype is not THE VOIP...", "We all use VOIP...", "VOIP only needs...". A short sentence, then the explanation, then the clarification (complete with a grandmother being called from the old rotary phone, to show that we all use VOIP without knowing it). Up to the inevitable "Il VOIP può far risparmiare molto, ma dipende..." - "VOIP can save you a lot, but it depends...". There it is. I knew it was coming. At the end I define it myself as "una sorta di mini FAQ" ("a sort of mini FAQ"). No detector needed: I had already turned myself in.

In Il popolo dei blogger e dei loro lettori (The people of bloggers and their readers) I start classifying. First the bloggers. Then the readers (or rather, the "LETTTORI", with three Ts: the typos, as I was saying). Those who pass by and leave, those who take part, those who agree, those who disagree. And then a category that, reread today, made me laugh out loud: those looking for a personal vendetta, who never engage with what you actually wrote and simply call you incompetent. One of them wrote to me that I was ugly and should remove my photo from the blog. Eighteen years ago I had already put them in a taxonomy. Only the word "slop" was missing. At the bottom, two twin questions: "Chi sono, dunque, i blogger?" and "Chi sono, dunque, i lettori?" - "Who, then, are the bloggers?" and "Who, then, are the readers?". Each with its answer, of course.

And then there is BlackBerry: i suoi pro e i suoi contro (BlackBerry: its pros and its cons). Here there is nothing to interpret, it's all in the title. PRO. CONTRO. Both openly in no particular order. But not even the single points manage to be clear-cut: "dipende" ("it depends"), "nel complesso" ("overall"), "personalmente" ("personally"). Even among the cons I find a way to add that, after all, the competition doesn't do much better. At a certain point I ask the question myself: "A questo punto la domanda che uno potrebbe porsi e': si, ok, ma quindi?" - "At this point the question one might ask is: yes, ok, but so what?". And I answer: I, for now, am happy with it. "Tu...fai quello che vuoi! :-)" - "You...do whatever you want! :-)". The most honest recommendation I have ever given.

In 2009, Identità reale o pseudoanonimato virtuale? (Real identity or virtual pseudo-anonymity?). I start from Fidonet, when people showed up online with name and surname, and I arrive at two categories of people who use a nickname: those who want to protect their privacy and those who want to feel free to behave badly. The first I understood perfectly, then as now. "Nel primo caso...". "Nel secondo caso...". In the first case, in the second case. Which choice is better? Both have their pros and their cons. I don't know why, but I saw that coming. I close by saying that I tend to sign with my name almost always. "Ho detto quasi :D" - "I said almost :D".

In 2010 the BlackBerry comes back. Or rather, it leaves: Da BlackBerry Bold ad Android (HTC Dream G1) - quasi 3 mesi dopo (From BlackBerry Bold to Android - almost 3 months later). Two sections, facing each other, in capital letters: "QUANDO HO APPREZZATO L'ANDROID" and "QUANDO MI E' MANCATO IL BLACKBERRY". When I appreciated the Android, when I missed the BlackBerry. Nine points on one side, seven on the other. Then: "Tirando dunque le somme..." ("So, summing up..."). The sums, naturally, say that both have positive and negative sides and that neither has everything. Sixteen years later, the BlackBerry is gone. The "dunque", my beloved "therefore", is still here.

2013, Il SEO, questo sconosciuto. O forse no? (SEO, this unknown. Or maybe not?). The doubt is already in the title and the answer arrives in the third paragraph: "O forse no? Dipende" - "Or maybe not? It depends". Two "Sia chiaro" ("Let me be clear") follow, then "in some cases", "in many other cases", "in my opinion". I recognise the value of those who do that job seriously, I take issue with those who judge other people's work without having the skills (and, as it happens, with an aggressiveness proportional to their incompetence), then I try to distinguish when a consultant is needed and when not. In the middle, a line I stand by: "il mondo è bello perché è vario. O avariato." The world is beautiful because it's varied. Or gone off. (It works better in Italian: vario, avariato.) And at the end, after all that caution, I offer my two cents.

2014, La mia esperienza (positiva) con BTRFS (My (positive) experience with BTRFS). With the parenthesis already in the title. I describe the test bench (the Atom server at home, 4 GB of RAM, three 1 TB disks) and then: "Il risultato? Eccellente" - "The result? Excellent". Question, answer. Right after, though, come the details to keep in mind: copy-on-write, recent kernels, a stability that is not yet complete. And at the end, the question of all questions: "Mi sentirei dunque di consigliare BTRFS al grande pubblico? Dipende." - "Would I therefore recommend BTRFS to the general public? It depends." One word. Full stop included. Eight years after the first post, the gist was still the same.

And then the small scattered pearls. In the 2008 review of Nav4All, a navigator that promised to stay free until 2010: "Promessa rispettata? In larga parte, si'." - "Promise kept? For the most part, yes." Further on: "Come va? Bene." - "How does it work? Well." And in the one from a few months later: "Come si comporta il Curve con il Nav4All? Benissimo" - "How does the Curve behave with Nav4All? Very well". Dry question, dry answer. Today a construction like that is enough to be convicted without appeal. (For the record, in 2010 I wrote Nav4all non c'è più - Nav4all is no more. Punctual.)

I could go on for a long time: there are many posts, and each of them has something. Every now and then I start from an image and, at the end, I go back to it, to close the circle. I still do that today and, for some, it will only be yet another confirmation. I'll probably do it in this post too. Or maybe not. And somewhere, even back then, I wrote that open source doesn't get along with closed minds. I still think so. But by now the point is made, and there's no need to list everything.

Eight years, wildly different topics: phones, navigators, filesystems, bloggers. And always the same habits. I ask a question and I answer it. I anticipate the objection. I split into cases. I put the pros on one side and the cons on the other. And when the moment of the verdict comes, "it depends". None of this arrived with LLMs. It was already my way of reasoning. And of writing. With one difference: inside those structures there are the Krebs cycles, the three Ts of "LETTTORI" and an embarrassing amount of smileys. The form, perhaps, looks LLM. The rest, I'm afraid, is all mine.

The me of today is a product of the me of back then. What I liked, I kept doing. Other things, instead, I stopped writing. Some I would write differently today. Others I wouldn't write at all. But I enjoyed writing then, just as I enjoy it today. Actually, today I have more things to say. More experience and, perhaps, even more certainty that there are rarely simple answers to difficult problems.

Does any of this prove that I wrote this post without an LLM? No. Nor was that the point. The old posts show that these patterns were there long before LLMs, not how this post was written. And when someone demands "prove it isn't", the burden of proof has already been reversed.

But 2002 Stefano had already written the answer, on page 13. A detector that treats everything outside its model of "how a human writes" as dangerous will produce false alarms. I'm one of them, and probably not the only one. And the high false alarm rate, I'm told, is generally cited as the main drawback.

So what does all this prove, then? Basically two things: that "LLM patterns" have always been part of the way I write and that, for those who have been reading me for twenty years, many of those patterns shouldn't be news at all. A pattern is not a verdict.

Or that LLMs learnt from my texts - or perhaps, getting serious again, that people wrote like this and LLMs "learnt" from those who, like me, were already writing long before they arrived. Not because we wrote particularly well, but because we produced a lot of text, on the Internet, in that form.

Or... or I really am an LLM. Stefano, the human LLM of the 2000s. And instead of electricity, I run on pizza, tiramisù and (a bit of) coff -OUT OF TOKENS-.

"Electric", I answered with a smile, without hesitating, thinking back to the bread, the pizza, the tarts and the cakes she had made for me since I was a child. As soon as I was about to finish one, she was ready with another. Getting up a couple of hours earlier in the morning, if necessary, just so I would never go without.

Linda raised her eyebrows: "I knew it. Women who work outside the home don't have time to look after the house. They have to find quick solutions. I only use a gas oven. Of course, it takes effort and attention, but things have to be done properly. But of course, if you have to go to work, you don't think about these things and you neglect the house."

Puzzled, I smiled.

One morning, Linda's husband felt unwell. He was at work, as always, and he was very stressed. He had a sharp pain in one leg and was taken straight to the hospital. He wasn't young anymore, and that kind of pain could mean many things: his colleague decided not to take any chances and put him straight into the car. When they arrived at the hospital, they immediately realised the situation was fairly serious: his life wasn't at risk, but that pain had to be treated right away to avoid worse problems. My parents were already there, and I arrived shortly after. Only Linda was missing. The doctor decided to call her, reassuring her and explaining the situation. "Do I have to come right now? I've just got everything ready to mop the floors and I don't want to leave the house upside down." The doctor's insistence convinced her to come. I rushed to her house to pick her up. She came out slamming the door. "Do you think it'll take long? I've got things to do, you know!" We reached the hospital in a few minutes. Standing in front of her husband, she asked him how he felt. "Fine, don't worry. I'm fine." The doctor was of a very different opinion: "Your husband needs rest and some tests. We'll keep him here for a couple of hours, under observation, while we wait for the results. Then he can go home, but he'll need to be back here tomorrow morning at 8 for further checks." Linda looked at us: "Can you bring him?" The doctor frowned. "Or... does it really have to be at 8, doctor? Because tomorrow I'd planned a deep clean of the house and I wouldn't want to change my plans. Could we come a little earlier, so I can get back home and carry on?" The doctor looked at the patient, who nodded, resigned. "Signora, you don't understand. This is serious!" Linda lowered her eyes, then raised them again: "Doctor, I have to go home! I left everything upside down, I have to tidy up! I can't leave the house like that! Can I come back to pick him up when it's time for him to go home?" She turned to me, without giving anyone a chance to answer: "Will you take me home? I've got so much to do!"

The phone kept ringing. It was Linda.

I didn't want to answer. This time, she had really, really gone too far. Eventually, I picked up. Her voice had aged, of course, but her insistence hadn't changed one bit. "Yes, Linda?"

"You know why I'm calling. Maybe I went too far. So many years of friendship, ruined by one sentence that came out wrong?"

"No, Linda. I'm sorry, I'm very sorry, but nothing can go back to the way it was. Some words can't be taken back. Especially when they're about my mother."

An indecipherable sound came from the receiver. "I see. I'm going to clean the house. After all, what could I expect from the son of a woman who uses an electric oven?"

The call runs smoothly and my colleague's accent fascinates me. He's not a native English speaker, but perfectly clear, and that lovely way he says "meanwhile" - something like "mean-will" - makes me smile every time. At the end of the call I stare at the screen for a few seconds, at the Galene window. Almost automatically I take off my shirt and dive into a search. In seconds I find what I need and finally launch the Commodore 64 emulator. Full screen. A few moments of waiting. "Zak Zak Zak, What am I going to do with you?" The English version, the one from back then. The Commodore 64 one. I didn't understand it, at that time, but it was enough.

I move Zak around the house, making him do without thinking all the things I used to make him do nearly forty years ago, until that screen: "Meanwhile, in a secret room". I burst out laughing, so much that my wife runs into the study to share the laugh. She looks at the screen, doesn't get it. Looks at me, shrugs and walks away, eyebrows raised.

I never finished that game, but I travelled so much thanks to it. I searched desperately for that city called "Menaville". Because a ten-year-old kid who didn't know English misread it, and thought that secret room was in one of the many airports Zak could reach, a place called Menaville, and that you had to unlock something to get there. And I had fun, because at ten years old, that kind of open world made me feel free.

I never found Menaville. But freedom - I found that, yes.

It was 2010, an early summer day. It had rained until shortly before; outside, the air was finally cool and the mugginess was gone. Inside the house it was still heavy, almost unbreathable, and I badly needed to unplug. I put on my jacket, grabbed my phone and rushed out. I glanced at the garage, but the bike didn't seem like the right choice that day. So I walked. Town or countryside? I needed quiet: countryside. I turned left and headed out, away from town. The sun came and went between the white clouds, still strong enough to be felt. I put in my earphones and started my music - "Nuvole di Luce" by Cacciapaglia, right for the weather and for my mood.

The climb up to the river was short but steep, the grass still wet, the ground muddy. "Let's see if it's swollen", I thought, after all that water. When I got to the top I saw that it had risen, yes, but not by much. The breeze was pleasant, so I kept going along the embankment. I walked for about an hour without looking back. My thoughts travelled with the air, and the sun warmed my skin, reminding me it was summer.

Then I heard a threatening sound: thunder. I turned sharply and saw the clouds gathering behind me. I headed back, at least as far as somewhere I could take shelter. I had my umbrella with me, but those storms were never light ones, and an umbrella was almost useless against them. Halfway there, it started to rain. I opened it and came down off the embankment, closer to the main road. My phone rang: it was my father. Still worked up, I answered and told him what was going on. We both laughed, and got lost in conversation for a few minutes.

A sudden light. I froze. It came from the tree about twenty metres away. It spread across the grass, towards me, towards everything green around me. I felt the energy rise from my feet, my hair standing up, every muscle locking, holding me still. It lasted an instant, and it was gone with the crash of thunder. I stood there for a few more seconds while my father, on the other end, kept saying my name. "I've just seen lightning, twenty metres from me. I felt it, on me. I'm wearing rubber soles, but I felt it. I'm fine." He went quiet for a while, then started talking again as if nothing had happened, and I started walking again.

As soon as I got home I took off all my soaking clothes. And only then, leaning against the sofa, still dripping, did I start to shake.

I look at the stain and smile again. This time, at least, it was only pasta.

And I decide to move, but only through the fourth dimension. I close my eyes and see the moment when I first looked out of this window, twenty years ago now, not even imagining that this house would one day become my home. I see the same tree, but smell different scents and hear different sounds.

I open my eyes, then close them again, this time moving through the three dimensions. I see the house where I grew up, with my parents already in bed, asleep. They will get up very early, because by now they have been used to it for years.

I remain there and move backwards through the fourth dimension. I see myself. I see my birthday party, with my cousins, my aunts and uncles, my friends. All my grandparents, smiling and a little bored. It’s 22:53, but many years ago, and I’m tired, yet full of energy. Life.

I close my eyes again and go even farther back. It’s 22:53 and there is silence. I’m in my bed, and my young mother, her eyes shining, sings me my lullaby, while I struggle to fall asleep, but smile with my eyes closed.

I open my eyes, pick up the herbal teas and turn off the light. It’s 22:55. Time to go back to bed and finish watching the video I left halfway through, while my wife has already fallen asleep.

Here, now.

I recognised it. I smiled. It was exactly as I had intended it, when I took it. My fog.

I was born in a place where fog was an extremely rare phenomenon, and I have lived for many years now in an area where fog is a constant for much of the year. Or perhaps I should say it was, because in recent years things have changed here too. The first few times, it frightened me. At the wheel, it worried me. But when I wasn't driving, I welcomed it with affection, my fog.

That day I was confused. Saddened, unable to truly make sense of things. I decided to go out on foot, well wrapped up, and I ventured out. A few metres from home, I stopped seeing the buildings. The sounds are different too, when I walk through my fog. Muffled and distant, and the pressure of the humidity pushes against the eardrums, almost like a massage. The smell is particular, and it dampens everything else.

You see distant shapes that, as they draw closer, take form. Then they vanish, shortly after, just as they appeared. In silence, in indifference. Because when there is my fog, people are more distant, even if they are a few metres away.

I hear my thoughts, in my fog. Only them. Only mine. Because everything is muffled, even the existence of others. And I don't get distracted, in my fog, because all around there is only her, massaging my skin and reminding me to think of myself.

It is me, among the shadows, in my fog. There are people, but there is no one.

The only certainty is that I am here.

All of a sudden, the sound of the intercom. I jumped in my chair. I looked at the clock: 10. Perfectly on time. "Good". I suspended my task, opened the window and told them to come in, while I put on a pair of shorts and went down to the street.

Two lads got out of the white van. One came towards me smiling, holding out his hand: "Pleased to meet you, soy Federico." I held out my hand too, and replied with the same smile. Very thin, tanned, tidy and clean. In no time at all, he started unloading his tools and asking me where the entry point into the house was. "We come down from the pole, then we connect to the inspection chamber, and we arrive wherever you want." I showed him my idea, which I had already prepared with some electrician’s pull wires. "Perfect, Señor, very simple! I only need to dig a small trench, twelve metres along the passage. I’ll get the pickaxe."

I looked at him. Twelve metres, 35 degrees, pickaxe? He smiled. "Yes, it takes me longer to get the machine down than to do it by hand. Don’t worry, Señor, I am used to it." He started digging and, in fact, in just a few minutes he had made the small trench. I offered him a coffee, which he gladly accepted. Then some water. No, he already had that. While he was drinking the coffee, he thanked me. People do not offer it very often, but he appreciates it.

"I can imagine how tiring it must be to work in this heat, in the street..." "No, Señor. Yes, it is hot, but it is a pleasure. I like my work. I learn a lot, I meet many people, soy lucky."

He wanted to talk, to tell me about himself. I decided to stop and stay with him while he worked, and the more I listened, the more he worked with joy. He had left Argentina with his whole family a few years before. He did not speak Italian, but "Italian and Spanish are similar. We understand each other." But when he started working, he realised he could not understand. "They were not speaking Italian, Señor! Only their local language. But in the end I had learnt something, and they laughed. I spoke badly. But they understood me, eh!" Then he was transferred a thousand kilometres away. "And here they speak Italian, I understand everything! And they understand me! But I had become fond of my old people, even if I did not understand them." Federico, meanwhile, kept digging and talking. "My little girls went to school here. They speak Italian perfectly, and they have many friends! They are fascinated by their origin, and some families hope their children may learn a little Spanish with them."

His face, more and more sweaty, kept smiling. "How could I complain? I have a good job, my family is well. I want to buy a house, I have some savings, but I need to get a mortgage. Actually, could you give me some advice, Señor?"

I smiled. I explained a few tricks to him, a few things that could make it easier for him. He thanked me in his own way: he did an even more precise job, even cleaner. And he kept smiling, serene. "When I left for Italy with my family, I thought I was mad. Instead, it was the best thing I have ever done. After my little girls, of course!" And he burst out laughing.

At the end of the work, when it was time to say goodbye, I offered him another bottle of water, but he declined. "I have my supply, Señor. Today is hot and I am prepared. Today is a beautiful full day!" I thanked him with a friendly, familiar handshake. "Thank you for the coffee and the advice, Señor. I appreciate it very, very much!" He manoeuvred quickly and threw himself back into the street, waving warmly at me with his hand.

I went back to my study. I sat down on my chair and returned to my backup. I smiled. I had put a rate limiter on the IP. Click, removed. The backup started flowing again at its regular speed.

And, all of a sudden, I realised I had stopped sweating.

The park had opened a year earlier, and the visit was a coincidence: we drove past, noticed it, and it sparked our curiosity. It was small back then, but full of energy. Lara Croft, the Blues Brothers - I have photos with all of them - and the Back to the Future DeLorean. There were wonderful shows and distinctive attractions. The owners wandering around the park, studying their guests' expressions, and a general sense of novelty and growth. It was the high point of those days, and it gave me a sense of peace for a long time to come.

Two years ago, waking up in a hotel, we didn't know what to do. An advert in a leaflet and the idea struck: we could go to Movieland! Tickets bought online, into the car, and within minutes we were at the car park.

I remembered the entrance being different, and in general, the sense of familiarity was only present in specific areas. But the atmosphere was the same, the energy too, and the positivity at its highest.

At one point, we decided to try an attraction called Antares, without knowing what it was. A beautiful set design, an interesting story, and then into the spacecraft. The rotor principle, dated by now, but perfectly synchronised with music, video, and lights. Until our feet lifted off the ground, simulating weightlessness.

I closed my eyes and smiled. I could no longer feel my body, only a soul lifting from the weight of everything else. An infinite instant of peace.

At the end of the ride, we immediately went back inside. Nice - but normal. That sensation was gone, but the happiness of having experienced it remained.

I put the mug back in its place, after wrapping it in soft paper, with the same smile as before. I turned around and, walking away, I felt much lighter.

My eyes fall on the folder still resting on that table, full of notes jotted down on a sheet of paper. Traces of medicine boxes, of appointments made, some crossed out. The name is still legible on that worn folder, and it is not my name.

I turn my gaze and find other boxes. More supplements and bottles. I close my eyes and the walks to the pharmacy come back to me. The freezing air, the scarf, my hands reddened by the winter wind. But I went on foot, for that small outlet - that half hour of movement in a static time.

The pharmacist would ask questions and offer advice. I nodded and smiled, but understood nothing. I just wanted that time to end. Then she would ask how I was. Fine. Even though I was eating sweets and losing weight. Even though I slept like a stone, but little. Even though I dreamed - and not of what I would have liked.

Then I see the antibiotics - mine, this time - that I took a few weeks ago. When, at last, I could afford to be ill myself. For a few days. I can't stay away from my life for long.

I look at the calendar and the weather forecast on the device in front of my eyes. Sun, warmth. The plan is for a fine day out. I think to myself that I need to put that folder away. Winter is over, thankfully.

I press the button and wait: 104/58.

I get up and return to my chair, without looking back.

On the left, the paintings are gone. On the right, the bright living room sits bare, stripped of its small ornaments. My eye looks for the photo of me with the red telephone, forgetting it is already at my own house. The sofa has been shifted slightly, the small table pushed into a corner. It was the only way to get through with the walker. The shutter is up, the curtain open onto a pleasant, sunlit day.

The big living room television is gone, leaving a patch of different colour on the cabinet. Next to it, the kitchen. The fridge is off, the small television also gone, the table pushed into a corner. The smell of the stuffed olives she used to make for me is still there. Or perhaps it is only in my mind. Without thinking, I open the oven. Empty, as it never was. I close it again. The mantel clock has vanished, and so has the Frate Indovino calendar. The fireplace is still sealed. They said it was the regulations, but grandfather was tired of carrying the wood up. The old boiler is off, its dial worn down.

I turn back and step toward the hallway. The old pendulum clock is still there, stopped. As a child, in the old house, I used to play around it, circling it. It looked enormous to me. When they moved, grandfather cut it short at the bottom and hung it on the wall. Crooked, otherwise it would stop. I lift it off the wall, revealing the mark behind it, and set it down on the floor. I remembered it lighter. To the left, the room where I slept only once. I smile, because everything is the same. I open a drawer, empty. The family photos used to be in that drawer. I close it. On the wall, my embossed poster with a cat and a dog. Faded with the years, flattened by games and house moves. I fought to keep it from being thrown out, even in that state.

I leave the room and move on to theirs. The photos are gone, and all the furniture is polished and clean. A ray of sunlight comes through the window and falls on the chest of drawers - it's morning, the sun comes from the east. When they were here, the shutter was always half-lowered at this hour. They would get up very early and take a nap mid-morning. Then they'd raise it again, and I'd know I would find them awake. Ready to make me something good when I was hungry. Or just a comfort, when I was tired.

I turn and go into the room across the hall. I open the doors of the large wardrobe, but it is empty. My comics are gone, and so are my toys. All of their things are gone. How big that wardrobe is, and how full it used to be! There are still some things on the old red table. Thirty-five years ago, give or take, in its place there was the cardboard box. He had brought it home so we could play with it, and we had turned it into a kind of fort, with all our friends. It seemed enormous, but it was probably smaller than that table. So many memories, here. Out of habit, I look at the corners of the room. My friend had brought the fishing worms and we had forgotten to close the box. They had spread all over the room. But I got away with it, that time too.

I leave the room, on the right the brown bathroom. In good shape, but worn by time. I didn't remember that handle. Ah yes - grandfather had put it in when he was starting to have trouble moving. The shower could use some work, but it still functions. I keep walking and reach the other bathroom - my bathroom. The tub is still untouched, even after more than forty years. It can't have been used five times. The toilet still has its original seat, in perfect condition. That day, just back from school, I was peeing when she came running into the bathroom. She was crying. A boy in her class had insulted her. "Don't worry, just tell me who it is, I'll come to school and your big brother will have a word with him." She smiled and calmed down, while grandmother was telling us to wash our hands because everything was ready. The bidet is still gleaming, while the sink shows a few more signs of wear than I remembered. Maybe, in the last few years, she had taken some shortcuts to clean it more quickly. But I haven't been in here for a long time, maybe I'm not remembering well. The tiles are still spotless. Except for the one near the window, where I dropped the hammer.

I take another walk through, trying to memorise everything, one more time. The bare walls, to my eyes, are still full of life. The cabinets full of photographs. And again, I catch the smell coming from the kitchen.

I take down the pendulum clock and lift it onto my shoulder. I reach the door. I open it and step out. I turn, looking once more, for the last time, at the long, bright hallway.

I close the door, forcing the key a little, and tear the label off the doorbell.

Childhood memories stay imprinted in the mind far, far longer than those accumulated in adulthood.

In the square full of columns where that footage was shot, I used to go often with my grandmother, as a child, to the fruit and vegetable market - with that strong, distinctive scent of a herb market. As a teenager, I would sit on those low walls and lean against those columns with my friends, talking about the things teenagers talk about, dreaming and living. Those columns, like other corners of that city, were my world. And the pizzeria nearby, which tempted us every afternoon with the fragrance of freshly baked focaccia.

Ancient cities have a particular quality: they remain unchanged in space and time, allowing memories to reinforce their own persistence. There was a phase of my life when that city was perfect. I knew almost all my peers, at least by sight. All I had to do was step out at half past six in the evening, walk into the centre, and run into someone to exchange a few words with or take a stroll. No appointments needed - we all knew that if we were free, we only had to go into the centre and we would find each other, and then make plans from there. Mobile phones either didn't exist or were still expensive and primitive, and yet social life existed all the same.

When the time came to go to university, many kilometres away, it felt like a trauma. I knew something would change - who knows, perhaps forever - and I decided to cling to my old life. Every weekend I took the train back, even if only for forty-eight hours, to keep living my life - that life - which I had earned with so much effort and which was slipping through my fingers. Some of my friends had stayed in the area; others hadn't moved far, choosing universities nearby or going straight into work.

A few months in, on the train, I was so excited about a dinner organised at one of their houses that I had jotted down notes about the countless things that had happened to me in Bologna during that period - things I couldn't wait to share. I arrived right on time, busied myself helping out - nothing was supposed to change - until we sat down at the table. The conversation drifted across the usual topics, the usual people, and when I took the floor to talk about my experiences, the conversation dropped shortly after. I didn't think much of it - conversations have a life of their own, take unexpected turns. The second time, when directly asked, I started again, and again the conversation dropped.

I was stunned: the lapse, I realised, was not accidental. So I fell quiet, participating half-heartedly in the usual talk about the usual people, the usual places, the usual things. At the end of dinner, a couple of friends who had also moved away - to Milan, for their studies - came over and, pulling me aside, said something that stopped me cold: "They're not interested in what we're doing outside of here. Those who stayed have no interest in what happens to us out there. Some out of a kind of resentment, others simply out of genuine indifference. Their whole world is here - and what we do beyond it is, for them, completely irrelevant."

I realised they were absolutely right. Even when we had greeted each other at the start of dinner, after weeks apart, no one had asked: "So, how's your new life going?" They had continued seeing each other often, but I had stayed away for a while, held back by exams. This seemed to produce no variation on the theme whatsoever. I ran a social experiment: I took the floor again and shared a piece of local gossip. In that moment I had their complete attention - everyone, and I mean everyone, hung on my every word until the very last detail. I went home incredulous. What I had feared had probably come to pass - my life had changed, yes, but not so dramatically. But for them, my life was now different, outside their circle of interest, and in that moment foreign to them, unless it aligned entirely with their expectations. My determination not to cut the umbilical cord only worked if my social life revolved around events that had happened between Friday and Sunday. If something strange had happened to me on a Wednesday in Bologna - indifference. If I had a funny story - silence. If instead I had mentioned that a former classmate had broken up with his girlfriend - total attention. The whole train journey, then, served only to feed in me the illusion of a continuity that was already compromised. I concluded the effort was one-sided, and gradually, I let go.

But I didn't give up on reclaiming what was mine. As soon as I graduated - though I was already teaching and working - I set about finding a way to get closer again. To return to my city. And this desire was so strong that it didn't allow me, at least back then, to consider Bologna as a permanent home in any way. I hadn't even bothered to adapt, to make too many friends - "I'll be going back to my city soon."

Having kept good relations with everyone, I immediately started sending out CVs. Letting people know - friends, acquaintances, contacts - that I was ready to come back, ready to start from the bottom if needed, just to return.

Many pretended not to hear. Others called me in for interviews - and when they understood what I wanted and what I could do, they dismissed me with a flat "you're overqualified for what we're looking for." I was told my skills exceeded those of the owner, and that was completely inconceivable. I tried to enter a public competition - nothing doing: the role required a diploma in IT subjects. A degree, though a higher qualification, would not be valid. And a strong knowledge of French was required - though no one could explain why. I understood. Later, I discovered the competition had been tailored specifically for someone who was always going to get the role. My interest had only "complicated things." Undeterred, I pressed on - until I reached the encouraging offer: "You work for me for three years for free, I sell the service. If I make enough, I'll pay you. Otherwise we part ways - you're young, you have time." When I asked for more details about what "enough" meant, the person grew irritated and ended the conversation quickly, calling me a "presumptuous kid."

Meanwhile, in Bologna I had a dream salary and was doing work I loved. In a city that was not "mine", where I knew no one, but where people actually wanted to use my skills. Since part of my work involved training funded by European grants, I decided to try bringing that kind of training to my city. They already had IT courses - the classic "How to use Windows to write in Word" kind. I would simply bring what I was doing in Bologna, manage everything myself, adding value without taking anything away from anyone. No one listened. Determined, I spoke to an influential person and put forward my proposal. He told me, in all honesty, that this type of course had "always" been run by an elderly engineer, now in his eighties, and that there was no interest in expanding these projects into more modern forms. "If you want, I can look into it and try to speak to a politician, but I can't promise anything. Even if it's paid for by European funds."

That afternoon I drove for 30 kms and sat by my sea. It was moving at just the right pace - that steady, rhythmic sound, the smell of the shoreline and the fine mist of salt that clings to your lips, so that when you run your tongue across them you can taste it too. And I understood, beyond any doubt, that my life would not be in that city.

Almost all of my friends - the ones who didn't have their own businesses in the city - were now scattered across the world. The results had been the same for all of us. The ancient walls were still there, but "my people" were gone. My city no longer existed. Perhaps it had never quite existed at all. Or perhaps simply the fourth dimension - time - had erased what had made it so desirable to me. And I stopped trying, with the bitterness of someone who understands that the dream was always a pale illusion.

I don't go back to my city very often. Sometimes years pass between one visit and the next, because the feeling is divided: on one side, the sweet pleasure of memories. On the other, the sharp sting of rejection. Not of me, but of improvement, of change. The city continues, even today, to live in a self-referential closure, where many of its more ambitious children have found their paths far away, while those who remain indifferent to what happens beyond its walls keep speaking to the instincts of those who stayed. The population is in freefall.

When I speak today with someone who remained, that person still carries that sense of quiet resentment - as if the fault for all of this were mine, and the fault of everyone who left. But I don't hold it against them. They live inside a bubble made of former glory - family businesses, public sector jobs, privileged positions. They have never seen or experienced what it means to want to be, in some way, part of something important. So I have stopped defending myself too, because my city - if it ever existed in the form I knew it - has been gone for over twenty-five years. The market hasn't been held in that square for a long time now. The pizzeria on the corner has closed.

Now it is their city.

Beautiful, to visit. But not mine.

I opened it.

Inside, another cover, cardboard-coloured. I didn’t remember that.

The plastic binding had darkened; the contents had not.

I read the dates. I started reading.

I closed it, as I had done so many years before. To protect myself.

Then I opened it again. And I realised that no, I will never be ready. Not even many, many years from now.

I read the last pages.

I stayed there, listening to myself.

How many years, still. How many questions. How many doubts.

I looked at it and made it disappear forever.

Regretting it an instant later.

That afternoon in 2011, I was on top of the world. I was getting ready for a series of connected events I had been looking forward to for some time. I was going to an introductory meeting with an important potential client - one that would have allowed me to do wonderful things - and then a journey of around 150 kilometres to somewhere else, for a rather important evening, and the following morning, another work meeting. In those two days I would lay the foundations for my entire future and, after such a long time, I was truly, truly proud. I looked at myself in the mirror before leaving the house, and I liked what I saw. My smile was full, rich, bright. I decided to take a photo of myself in front of the mirror, to capture that moment.

Keys - taken. Wallet - taken. Laptop - of course. Suitcase with everything I'll need - yes. Does the car have a full tank of diesel? Yes. After closing the shutters and taking one last satisfied look at the living room, I locked up and got into the car.

The Thick as a Brick CD - to get myself going - and off. The journey went smoothly, filled with thoughts about what I would propose, how I would play it. And the meeting was a success: their situation was a disaster, and my project would give them stability within a few days. They approved it immediately, without any hesitation. In the meantime, an unexpected message had arrived, which I only saw at the end of the meeting. This message carried considerable weight - perhaps as much as the previous meeting, though in an entirely different context - and I read it twice, feeling my heartbeat shift. I arranged an evening programme, given how close my hotel was to this person.

I put on the Thick as a Brick CD again, this time turning up the volume and driving more calmly. I watched the people in the other cars and tried to read their expressions. Now and then, someone would look back at me. Who knows whether my expression gave away my emotions. What I do know is that I got a few smiles in return.

While I was comfortably overtaking, I felt something strange in my mouth. I paid no attention - I had eaten a sandwich not long before - and carried on singing. Until the moment I glanced down and saw fresh blood on my shirt. I pulled down the sun visor and looked in the mirror. My entire mouth was red, and a trickle of blood was running down my face. I opened my mouth and saw a whole pool of fresh blood, with no way of understanding where it was coming from. I froze. I turned off the music. I indicated right and pulled into the first service area I could find.

I couldn't make sense of anything. On instinct, I just thought about rinsing. I opened a small bottle of water I had brought with me, rinsed and spat out of the car door. Again and again, but the more I rinsed, the more the blood increased. The pool beside my door had become enormous, swelled by the blood diluting with water. I decided to run to the service station bathroom.

I don't like the sight of blood - but I immediately thought to bring my bag with me, with my precious laptop inside. They get stolen all the time, precisely when you're travelling alone and you step away toward the bathroom. The blood kept flowing, kept filling my mouth. That taste, that terrible taste, wouldn't leave me. I couldn't understand. The more I tried to find the source, the more agitated I became, the more it accumulated in my mouth.

I started to feel dizzy. I couldn't tell whether it was from the fright or from losing too much blood, but in either case, there was no time to work it out. I decided to sit down, not far from the sinks, on the floor. The service station was fortunately clean, and various people were coming and going. I had come from a work meeting - I was well dressed, with my bag. I was pale, my shirt stained, and visibly worried. I decided to half-close my eyes for a moment, without allowing myself to faint - and I decided that no, I was not going to die there, like that.

Meanwhile, dozens of people came and went. Lorry drivers, family men, businesspeople, young people and not so young - it was a busy service station at peak time. And I was there, worried and deeply ashamed, sitting in the corner of a motorway service station bathroom, alone, with blood coming out of my mouth. Many people saw me. Nobody asked if I needed help. I didn't need help - I would have asked - but nobody cared. Nobody alerted the staff. At best, I was invisible. At worst, someone to glance at sideways with disgust.

I could have cried - from shame, from fear, from the sense of emptiness. Then, all at once, I understood that no, I was not going to die in this corner of a service station, and that, in fact, the bleeding had stopped a few minutes ago.

I waited a moment longer and stood up. I rinsed the shirt - cold water removes fresh blood, a friend had taught me - and decided I would change it as soon as I got back to the car. Or perhaps not - what if the blood started flowing again?

I rinsed my mouth once more and returned to the car. I saw the pool of my blood beside the door, stepped over it, and continued on my way, with the headache of someone who had come close to passing out.

After about ten kilometres, I felt the taste of blood again. I opened my mouth and saw it was coming from a tooth - that wisdom tooth. It had decided to push through on exactly that day, far from home, with such important plans ahead. I reassured myself and simply managed the situation. I understood that by breathing through my mouth and letting air in, it would stop. My dear old platelets - you just have to stop rinsing them away.

Calmer, I continued my journey to my destination, my hotel. I checked in and went to my room to have a long shower. I didn't cancel the rest of my plans, but adapted accordingly. I took off the shirt, looked at it carefully, and decided that if the blood didn't come out, I would dye it a dark colour once I got home. I checked that the others were in order - they were, and I always pack at least one spare. The shower was long and relaxing. I changed into the other shirt - the one I had packed not for work, but for the evening - and checked myself in the mirror one more time before going out.

That night I fell asleep very, very late. The room was exactly as I had left it - yet somehow emptier. And no, I wouldn't have wanted to be alone. I didn't feel calm. Yes, the wisdom tooth and the bleeding seemed to have stopped hours ago - but I was alone, in an anonymous, clean, sterile hotel room. And no, I wouldn't have wanted to die there either - I thought - though this time almost mocking myself for the excessive fear of the afternoon.

When I woke the next morning, I made an unpleasant discovery: the pillow and the sheets were heavily stained with blood. I felt guilty. White sheets, a wonderfully comfortable pillow - ruined. After a shower, I went down for breakfast, making sure to eat only soft things. I went back to the room and got ready for the next appointment, though worried about this new episode of blood loss.

I went down to reception to check out. The receptionist was different from the one the previous evening: an older man, professional, with a reassuring smile - but with wrinkles that showed the smile was simply a professional habit. I handed over the room key and explained what had happened, asking to pay for the extra cleaning or any damage my blood might have caused to their linen.

All at once, his smile became real. "You can't imagine what we find in the rooms", he murmured. And he asked me to wait. After about a minute, he came back with a small white bag. "These are two gum swabs. If it happens again, place one on the affected area. It will absorb the blood and help the wound close." He wouldn't let me pay for them. I thanked him warmly and said I hoped we'd meet again. "Oh, that won't happen. Today is my last day." As he said it, though, his smile shifted, and his face settled back into the shape of his wrinkles, until the greeting for the next guest.

"I've never understood what that thing is, but I suppose it's ready to be thrown away by now?" My wife knew about my adventure on that trip, but some details were and will remain mine alone.

"Nothing, just a swab to absorb blood in case of problems with a tooth. It's fifteen years old, but I want to keep it anyway."

She asked no more questions, and carried on looking for a plaster to cover my slight abrasion.

On International Women's Day, Anatoly's mother was smiling. Her son had sent her a message with his wishes. He had been moved to the rear lines a few days earlier and, at last, could sleep in a bed. Could wash. Because in the trenches, he told her, days passed all the same, sleeping on the ground, without washing. And in those few hours of light sleep, the nightmare was always the same: the sound of a drone - the kind of drone that, if you hear it, it is already too late. But now, thankfully, he was calmer. Perhaps he might even manage to come home for a few days - who knows - to see his sisters. He wasn't convinced himself; he said it with conviction. The conviction of someone who hopes it might happen. "And you, Mamma, how are you?" She laughed, though moved: she was safe, in Italy, in a warm house with people who have treated her as part of the family for many years. With her aches and pains as age advances, she is well. And yet he worried about how she was doing.

Only a few months earlier, at the end of 2025, Anatoly's mother had received a message. "Mamma, I'm scared. I don't want to die." He was travelling to the front, knowing he would remain there - hopefully - for a long time. An early return would have been decidedly ill-omened, because you only come back early in two ways: wounded or dead. "You won't die, my son. Be brave." We have known her for many years; she is an extremely strong woman and could say nothing else. Her eyes, as she told us, said everything: she would have run there, to take him, to bring him home. But her country is at war and there was nothing she could do. Thirty-five years old, in good health and, like all his brothers, a handsome young man. Until a few months earlier he had been working in Poland, but at a certain point he had to return, and although all his older brothers were already at war, they needed him too. He accepted because he had no other choice. "And you, how are you?" Anatoly's mother smiled. "I'm fine, my son. I'm fine, don't worry about me." She told us this with a smile. The smile of someone who, every day, hopes a message will arrive from her son. "I'm fine, Mamma, don't worry." Even when he was under the bombs. Even when his friend was killed, hit by a drone.

On the morning of the 26th of March, Anatoly's mother was on her way back from the hospital, to collect test results from a few days earlier. When the phone rang, at an unusual hour and from a family member, she answered without a second's thought. Her expression changed instantly and her voice broke. They told her nothing, only that she was needed at home. She already knew what had happened. A mother knows without knowing. She packed in a rush, throwing into a suitcase whatever she could, and managed to catch the bus that same evening. Over twenty-four hours of travel expected, which would become many, many more.

Anatoly's mother said goodbye to her son on the 2nd of April, burying him in the local cemetery. The mud was so deep that the municipality had to intervene with heavy equipment to allow the ceremony to take place. The mayor published photographs. His friends, a video. She saw him for the last time, his face clearly recognisable and at peace, though marked by trauma and wounds. But they told her not to touch him: only the visible parts were still presentable. She approached his coffin and leaned down, supported by one of her daughters. She had always known - always known - it would end like this. But Anatoly's mother, like all mothers, had hoped until the very last that, at least for him, fate would have looked the other way. Their family is Catholic, but the funeral was celebrated by Orthodox priests: the Catholics were busy with Easter preparations and were unable to celebrate the funeral of young Anatoly. But none of this matters very, very much to Anatoly's mother.

Still carrying the scent of coffee, I put on my earbuds, started my music, and switched on my computer. The terminal was waiting for me, as always. I smiled.

bastille create new_project 15.0-RELEASE 10.1.1.1 bastille0

I entered my world, where time is measured in beats per second. I began to fly, through that series of words incomprehensible to most, yet dear and familiar to me. Those words don't judge me, don't accuse me, don't attack me. I feel safe, among the bits of my computer.

When I heard arguing, I would run to my room and close the door. I would switch on my record player, turn up the volume, and leave the present behind. Arguments and fights, or just ill tempers. Situations that were sometimes difficult - too difficult for a child, too thin to turn to food, too small to truly understand what was happening. No one could really comprehend. And I didn't want to talk about it with anyone, because the one time I had, it was later used to make fun of me.

When my first computer arrived, I was too young to use it for anything other than games - at least for a while - so I flew on fantasy alone. When I played Maniac Mansion, I was in that house with them. When it was Zak McKracken's turn, I travelled the world with him. I had no interest in finishing the game - only in seeing the "world" and discovering what was out there. When The Secret of Monkey Island arrived, I was in the Caribbean with Guybrush. I was Guybrush.

Inside my computer - inside that screen - everything was predictable. My video games were a safe harbour. No one would insult me, humiliate me, scold me. They were worlds where I could express myself without being judged. My brain was stimulated. I felt safe.

My mind is still desperately thirsty today - my spirit is still that of the child who travelled, and my safety, my world, are still my bits. The operating systems I love are my blank page. The keys on the keyboard spread the ink. The voice of the community, my friends - the people with whom to share a passion, and what makes the world a more liveable place.

I was testing the setup, with a satisfied smile, when the Monkey Island soundtrack began to play.

I looked out of the window and it was still dark. I turned my head forward and I was at my desk, with my Amiga, on a warm summer evening in 1991. In my eyes, the tears of a child setting off on a new adventure, shutting the whole world out of his room. For the first time, he was wearing the clothes of that character. For the first time, the warm breeze coming through the window carried the scent of the Caribbean. That child, that evening, was Guybrush.

I am still Guybrush.