Flowers of ruin

I sat on the terrace of a café, not overlooking the Charletti amphitheater, pondering the possibility of Philippe De Pacheco, whose face I never saw. I was jotting down notes, and without realizing it, I was fully aware of what I was doing: I began writing my first book. My motivation wasn't a chosen life path or any special talents I possessed, but simply the enigma of a man's life—a man I was certain to never find—and all the unanswerable questions surrounding him. In the background, a Cokebox played an Italian song, and the scent of a crackling fire filled the air. A beautiful young woman walked by in the shade of a tree on Jordan Avenue. Her blonde hair, her cheeks, and her green dress were the only refreshing breezes on that August afternoon. What was the point of chasing after elusive mysteries and haunting ghosts when life was right there before us, in its simplicity, under the bright sun? I was sitting on the terrace of a café overlooking the Charletti stadium. I was making all sorts of hypotheses about Philippe De Pacheco, whose face I didn't even know. I was jotting down some notes when, without fully realizing what I was doing, I began writing my first book. It wasn't any particular profession or talent that drove me to write, but simply the enigma posed by a man I had no chance of finding, and all those questions that would never be answered.
Behind me, a music box played an Italian song. The smell of burning tires filled the air. A girl walked past the leaves on Jordan Street. Her blonde bangs, rosy cheeks, and green dress were the only note of freshness on this early August afternoon. What was the point of trying to solve unsolvable mysteries and chasing ghosts when life was right there in front of us, in all its simplicity, under the bright sunshine?