The Roman form of serenade is to race a motorcycle motor under the girl's window, but mufflers are not common in any situation; the only things as dearly loved as a good noise are breakneck speed and eye-splitting lights, preferably neon - all expressions of well-being, like a huge belly-laugh.

Even the stupidest cat seems to know more than any dog.

How smartly September comes in, like a racing gig, all style, no confusion.

Doubt remains a luxury I won't do without.

The fresh start is always an illusion but a necessary one.

Shame can be self-indulgence too.

Rome is everybody's memory.