The Loss After Sandro Penna The last thoughts—sunk in the pillow, hardly turning into dreams—used to make it deep into the night. I loved to run over the day just passed, before moving to fancies about the next. Always, sleep arrived too soon. The magical aura of long summer watches—in through the window—still is what keeps me alive today. The child I was. But what a child! Much of it I’ve brought with me so very far away—tenacious even though unwitting. But not everything. Time makes impetus taper down, differences fade, both black and white just look like gray. I…