Everyone in my life has a special story, a story that belongs to me and only me who is ultimately different from that which would recite it himself, in a cool winter evening, for coffee. It so happens that the coffee is simply a probability, a personal longing to share coffee with my loved one. Each has a story woven smiles and my affection in hugs and warm words of small gestures and memories that I wear all the time for me, packed in boxes imaginary play and which sometimes give out. Everyone enjoys somehow my sensitivity, the same thing that makes me stronger, because I, in my turn, up from everyone - only for myself - a story. I do not know exactly why, some years ago, I started to catch a passion for chestnuts, which once these fruits begin to invade the autumn alleys. It is an indescribable happiness when they pursue the grass or fallen on the outskirts curbs when reach for special glow that my name that make me crazy. And it's so nice when I get to compete with people come parks where I was a peculiar silence filled my backpack with these special metaphors, while girls running through grass with a bag half filled. At home I filled one of the drawers wardrobe. The chestnuts. Chestnuts of all sizes, some curved, some wider, but all equally bright and beautiful exasperating.