It is the nostalgia of searching for oneself on foot in Milan, while one's footsteps trace emotions on the wet street.
In the mountains of solitude, a grey cloud tells me that I am in someone's hands. And he leads me by the hand to where existences shatter. Each verse of my poems lies untouched side by side. And the world is lost. With the falling drops, I do not mark time, I am simply far from life. And I merge with the dramatic sound of emotions. It rains on the emptiness and the cry becomes matter, breaking through the silence. Voices sway.
Here is the clash of asphalt and fluid steps that confirm the loneliness of human beings in the existential metropolis of noise. Debole.
Here is fear. Wood that has been hung up silently, surprised by water that deceives, a cause of mould that hinders the fire. Forte.
Here is the dance in the dark, between the clouds of the solo, which wants to capture eternal matter. We are lovers immersed in the drama of each other's salty tears, now united by the rain that mixes the smells to make them one.
