Billy Joel’s renowned song, entitled “Scenes from an Italian Restaurant,” evokes warm images of a sluggishly arousing Sunday afternoon, velvety and mild, of lounging on the terrace, with a cup of hot cocoa in one hand. The hot steam is charging towards the heavens, in a pirouetting movement, dancing like a on an invisible stage, dissolving into mid air, and amalgamating its own, newfound nothingness with everything. The melody caresses and cuddles like a soft wool blanket, slightly tingling on the places where the skin is bare and exposed, almost like a tiny prick of a needle, sending goose bumps up one’s spine. Everywhere around, there is a light breeze piercing the algid air, though the body does not seem to mind. It is not a Siberian coldness, despite the fact that there is winter frost, spilt on the ground like flour for good luck. The trees are unclothed, without a leaf to cover their auburn nakedness, still projecting their branchy fingers up, down, left and right, all over the place, in an effort to blossom prematurely. There is no snow, only a scent of winter in the air, of cold fingers scrapping the inside of one’s nose, of a lack of flowers and a sense of agreeable melancholy.
The sky is grayish blue, bordering on an unhealthy whiteness, because no sunrays get to pierce the thick covers of the cloudy ceiling, and people are inside their houses, rubbing their hands over a hot fire, flickering in the fireplace. The only ones who are outside are rushing somewhere, with their collars high up, covering their mouths, as if it is not only cold, but also there exists no need for communication. It is serene and harmonious, and there is an all-encompassing sadness about the place, though joy conceals itself. The trees slumber peaceably. The flowers are shriveled and desiccated. The winter sun cannot help them. However, there will be a rebirth, a passionate new life, the sun will warm freshly blossomed flowers again and the land will reawaken from its slumber.