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I helped him carry his shopping up to his eyrie at the top of an old building close to the Tiber. It is distinguished by a scattering of random objects hanging from the windows. Many are plastic toys, faded by the sun over time.
Inside, there is a wonderful column, and the walls are filled with a very personal graffiti - messages from visitors, some artworks, all mixed in with yet more objects, and buried beneath some practical things, such as the stove on which Emidio brewed up sweet, dark, Turkish coffee. As I went to leave, he suddenly grabbed a felt-tip pen, and quickly sketched my portrait. What we would make of Emidio's artifacts if he were not there in person, I am not entirely sure...