Yesterday, at work, with a regular client - a man in his sixties who always greatly appreciates my literary advice - I was having a chat about climate change and the various related issues.
At one point I talk about overpopulation and the discussion shifts to yes / no children.
I never go into too much detail about my cocks - nor those of others - on issues like this, so I solved it with a generic "I don't have any".
So he, I also believe in total good faith and believing he was paying me a compliment, exclaimed "Think again! With these maternal hips you have! You are the prototype of maternal female beauty".
Today I discovered that since I have no children, I implicitly do not have a purpose in life nor a way to use my time and therefore I can sacrifice myself for the company and "work 24 hours a day" (sigh)
There would be many things to say about it, of how the problem is not the men themselves, but the system they have created; how apart from the numerical disproportion, within the system there is a certain homogeneity of intent; how it is perfectly indifferent whether power is acted upon by a man or a woman because the woman, in order to snatch that power from the hands of a man, has somehow introjected the system better than him; and a thousand other things, but I don't want them anymore now.
Any wave of demand, if it acts within the capitalist-patriarchal system, has no chance of changing the present.
The whole fuckin 'system is wrong.
For many men a woman is still just a body. A body to be used sexually or to have children
 But are we still living in the nineteenth century?


She was perched on that wall. Right on the edge of a barely hinted spring, yellow with sun and scattered words. She looked around torn between the hesitation of taking flight towards the uncertain, and the fear of staying still and waiting. Stop on that wall aware that waiting was not the best choice, but the alternative ... then she realized that he was approaching.

She had noticed him immediately, as he wandered around her with a synthetic and brazen indifference. He had seen him approaching from afar, when he was a barely hinted silhouette, yet as if he already had a perceptible and concrete presence of his.

It was nice.

It was not an explicit thought that manifested itself inside her, and she certainly did not want to admit it to herself immediately, but she understood it in the very moment in which she understood that she had chosen the alternative of staying, of remaining still on that wall waiting for life followed its course even beyond its will to choose. He made another round, more and more concentrically close to her, then overcame all hesitation and stopped on the wall next to her.

Illuminated by the rays of the sun she was beautiful.
Here he is, he is here next to me. But she turned her head in the most opposite direction, staring into the void always full of emotions and anxieties. They didn't move. There are moments that are so solid it is possible to mark them in all their prolonged instantaneity. Those were such. Prolonged, slow and delicately sweet.

But she was turned towards nowhere and stared at the nonexistent. Almost he wasn't there. But he was resolved now. He concentrated all his vital energies in one point of the mind transmuting them into resourcefulness, circumnavigated her body and alighted next to her on the side of the gaze.

If she had turned her gaze again it would have been a definitive refusal. He couldn't do it. He didn't want to do it and he didn't. They finally looked into each other's eyes. You could have sworn they were smiling.

She blinked nervously. He wanted to talk to her, but he couldn't. He wanted to take her hand but he had no hands to do it. He just emitted a garrulous chirping remodeled in harmony with the essence of the universe. She answered with a syncopated and irresistible chirp.

They soared together, moving in a scented cloud of spring sounds. Below them the world was increasingly distant. The scattered words faded, and those teeming shapes were smaller and smaller, tiny, voracious and corrosive bacteria too busy devouring each other to have time to raise their heads and watch their flight.

More and more distant, more and more useless, more and more non-existent,

And they flew more and more alto.


Throw it away, that stone.
Take it and launch the way with all the strength you have in your body.
And, while you’re there,
tie all the pain I carry inside me together and hurl it against the water.
The sea will know what to do with it.
Take that pain away from me that stone that blocks the mechanisms of my heart.
Never tire of collecting the stones of my soul.
Never get tired of cleaning my heart every time it gets dirty with something that makes it beat less.


Eyes to the sky, a dark sky, without stars. The silence, dark and cold, with no more screeching. A window that separates me from that world that fits me tight. Nothing to upset me. Me, the silence and the coolness of a April dressed in November. The arms resting on the railing and the head that slowly becomes heavy. What’s giving out? The heart, the mind or the body? And perhaps in the end it is the heart that carefully chooses the most painful moments, those moments in which to turn off because enduring is no longer allowed, because at a certain point endurance is no longer human. And anger arrives, pain arrives, tears arrive, disappointment arrives and loneliness also arrives, because anyone in front of your pain does not understand and yells at you. Or maybe in the end the problem is just you, who always believe so innocently that you are so hurt that you don’t want anything anymore. In the end, it’s not even worth it anymore. The lights beyond that window go out, the screams cease, and you can go back to lie down on a bed drenched in hidden tears.

2:49 a.m

And here I am, here again … Of course you will think: “I take this on, always with its problems” No, don’t worry, apart from insomnia, since it is 2:49 am I have no other serious problems. I wanted to tell you about the chills that pervade every corner of our body when we are, even if only, touched by the right hands. Those hands that make us feel more alive with every touch. I wanted to tell you about that discharge that passes through every fiber of our body, giving us energy bursts … with a simple touch. Each time it is as if it were the first, even just when he puts his hand on my arm, I feel every single cell reaching towards him, with the desire to merge and unite to become one. Every cell, every single cell in my body tends to his body, which seems to have been designed on purpose to wrap me in his arms … which seems to have been created specifically to render me. I wanted to tell you about those chills that make us move, that make us love, that ignite the passion in every millimeter of our body, pushing us, spurring us to seek contact again … to seek that contact from which we become addicted, because we do not want anything else. than to feel alive. Every time I feel like it’s the first, every time I feel every millimeter of my body light up like a flash of heat. A burning flame that drags with violence and force towards him, removing any decision-making ability, pushing me into the abyss of passion … a flame that never stops burning but can only be tamed.


What taste drives people to excite restless souls, I know all too well. It’s a sadistic, wonderful, exhilarating little game. The same taste that drove you, my friend, now. What a perverse pleasure … Ah! Understandable. The eyes of fame, the body of need, the mouth that asks. Okay, let’s play. It delights me too much to tear souls and see you capitulate. You know, the world will always try to transform you into who it wants you to be. People, time, events, all will try to sculpt your self and make you believe you don’t know who you are. But it doesn’t matter who they try to turn you into or how they try to change you. You have to stay true to yourself. I feel like I’m wearing a sweater, one of those heavy pinching high-necked ones … I feel suffocated in a world like this …


Young people with an ancient soul are an asset that must be held in high regard because they have received as a gift the extraordinary bridges that unite ages and generations. The price they will have to pay will be that of never feeling totally part of the past, part of the peers around them. But if they exploit their gift in an intelligent way, they will have the opportunity to have a broader vision than many others and not to live in one time, but to experience, with full awareness of the most minute dynamics, the transition from one era to another. another one. They will not be inhabitants of the past, they will be inhabitants of history. Children of the past with an eye to the future. I looked up and saw the plants whose foliage swayed slowly in the wind. I allowed myself to feel that warm breeze on the skin of my face. It wasn’t true that the world was going very fast: it was I who was running wildly. The world was still, no, it danced happily with an age-old calm. My rest lay in the wind. The most beautiful time in the world the magic hour is to be in the countryside. you don’t meet anyone. The air is cheerful bright and fresh the larks challenge the sun sewing in the blue while finches get wet in the rare puddles that the north wind does not have still drunk. It is then that I I feel myself I feel my body dismembered in infinite lightness. This tacit acknowledgment it is a precious solitude which cannot be purchased. Men look like hallucinations to me bad fairy tales delusional utopias now that in their lairs they eat for a long time long wishing to live. Poor deluded! they do not know that I’m thinking of them here.


Using teeth and throats,
lips for breath beats, the flesh to whisper,
storm of veins, paw, sweat.
In the shell of your eyes winters a hard star,
an eternal gem.
But your voice is a calm sea, ancient shells,
pieces of reason,
mind in fragments of the sea.
The palm of the hand in the sky he marvels, the sun darkens,
to be able to look at you better.
You are also a grass, an orange,
a cloud, a rock on which to crash. The world falters at the kidneys,
the pleasure of the inner sediment contracts.
The heat of the heart expands, twisting towards the atrocious futures.
We sat exhausted in the rubble of your body,
we sucked the liquor from your brain,
and not only that, and we had to keep walking jumping over obstacles of love.
You are suspended on the circle of life
and you hold your skull well polished like an ancient object,
you cover it with your hair, you put it back.
Put on another wig and you are another different woman.
You have only indulged in your perfume of infinity.


The worst drama in the world is the despair which is capable of making the body and spirit of the human being die. Despair is the best weapon that evil uses to annihilate man in dignity and in his worth to make him his own. In the modern world, despair has spread quickly, including not only some sections of society but a bit of everyone and, increasingly, young people. Despair, more than from a lack of material goods, comes from an inner loneliness, from an inability to communicate one’s feelings to the other (without falling into hypocrisy or the usual clichés), from not feeling loved or for the less popular: all this leads to an unbearable burden of life.) We know of people who did not lack wealth or success in the workplace, beauty, approval of others (people also from entertainment, cinema) and who nevertheless felt sun and despair. The desperation of one who feels grossly guilty towards society, who has done ignoble things, who feels an outcast, a rejection of society, without hope of salvation is one of the gravest forms. Here evil plays its best card, it already has it in its coils and is only waiting for the moment that he indulges in an intimate life of extravagance or an extreme act of suicide! Daily intercourse with others can lead to despair (misunderstandings, quarrels, betrayals). In reality, every human being in the world is like a universe unto himself (a city-state, if you grant me the term). We see people around us that we don’t know anything about, we don’t know who they are or their history. The body, like an armor, contains wills, feelings, tastes, aspirations, its own characteristics that others do not know (sometimes not even the same family members) We would like others to think as we do, have the same interests, food tastes, music, sports, political ideas, artistic choices and we marvel if they don’t appreciate or despise what we appreciate. Thus we discard from our life those who are not according to our model. We are now billions of people, all different (like fingerprints), strangers to each other with difficulty in communicating and sharing. Sometimes we have something in common or that we like about each other and friendships and falls in love are born but, at the first incongruity, they decay. True friendship and true love is that of those who understand that the other is different, accept and share this diversity by reconciling it with themselves. The body is a facade that often deceives, a mask that can hide the totally different interior. In our mind there are images of beauty that overwhelm us (as well as sounds, melodies) and it may happen that a person corresponds to this image and we are deeply attracted to it but the spirit of that person is unknown to us. A peaceful and married life is possible only if one person manages to “graft” his self into the other to continue living as a single individual while facing the daily difficulties that life presents.

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