Sometimes love is deceiving. And she fell into that death trap: she fell in love with a man who, apparently, seemed madly lost in her, thus returning the feeling. But it was all a lie. The story goes that she noticed this as she sneaked up one night at a bar he used to go to, catching him flirting with another woman. Desperate for what happened, she killed her beloved and ran off towards the lake. The screams behind her became intense as did the words: "murderess" they all exclaimed and, while they accused her of murder, she threw herself into the lake and drowned. The bitterness in the mouth and the thirst for revenge led the spirit to watch over that lake for eternity. It is not known exactly what the consequence will be if you stumble into the depths of the abyss, but it is said that she is ready to take away any man in love with her. So beware, from the depths of the waters you could lose sincere and pure love by totally destroying yourself.


You have defined yourself as a coward, a liar, a waste not of society but of your own will; consenting prisoner of a transcendent, liquid, euphoric sleep that you have sarcastically called Ophelia.

Me: Why Ofelia?

You: For the innocence! because it originally comes from a flower! The flowers are innocent, then the man with the processes of manipulation makes them hallucinatory, crazy death! .. (laughs) ... and I with him calling him insane!

In the silence I look at him, his fragile body a withered petal so dry that I can see the pulse of his blood in his veins.

He looks at me, asks me to hug him and always smiling he says: You know, my lame Alice I'm still here because inside me there is a sadistic tyrant, schizophrenic omnipotent over him I have no fucking control, tenacious as an ivy in his cling to life! And that's what I feel in you now! for how many bites I have given him, often desired in each of his beats, I feel a unique creed that only now, lucidly, I understand.

I hold him tight to me! because I want to feel that heart that brought him back to life.

Returning to a lame Alice her Mad Hatter.


The hand on the bed, the messy body mixed with the sheets, the tousled hair, a ray of sunshine on her back. How can a human being feel so dull in such a lively context? The body between the sheets, and the mind where? The mind in the streets, gripped by a grip of people all the same and all so extinguished, all so ashes of a fire that does not rekindle. A body that mixes with the sheets and a mind that is lost in the ashes of a pain too strong to be faced, too violent to be placed on the pillow. Rising from the ashes means bringing the body to support the mind, held in that suffocating grip. There was a moment when the body was hidden by the sheets, and the sun did not touch the back. Slowly the wind blew off the sheet and exposed her back. The sun has passed the curtains. And everything that was dark before is now light. Now that the body is strong, the mind is free. Life burns back inside, starting from the feet to the heart. And like a child dreams of flying beyond the confines of the sky, dreams of changing the world. I will change the world, until the sun burns my back.


At a certain point

You decide to be born.

And it is as if this childhood

It was an abuse, a compulsion

To live

A condition to undergo

But at some point you are born

Decide which side to take sides

Whether to redeem yourself or repent

Whether to live or die

Whether to open your eyes or flee

Why sooner or later

You will fall into the archaic trap

In the question of the questions

To which there is no answer

But only points of view

And if you think about it, it could be playing bingo

Or play an important role

The meaning of your life

I hope it will be paid

Your expectation.

Whatever it is

Why sooner or later

You will fall into the question of questions

To which there is no answer

But only points of view

And you will start thinking about your body

At the finite time that characterizes us

How there can be no beginning without an end

And it will be here that perhaps you will notice the hitch

How every day tribulations for small matters

Because in the face of the end we are like autumn leaves

And then you will use the most varied theories

You will believe the three maries

Maybe a deity who tells the faithful how to lead their lives

Perhaps you will find joy in a prophet

In the most complete anarchy

Or maybe you will believe in eternal darkness

But the point is that perhaps this is the meaning of dying

That of being able to start over

Once again to feel


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.


She was killed by the electric current,
a home accident,
while he was cooking,
while doing the laundry,
while dusting,
and he sang no more.
She was killed by the blender,
while trying to maintain the diet,
while he was fighting against the tomatoes,
while cleaning the floors.
She was killed while no one noticed her,
while the others slept,
while the sun was shining and
the flowers bloomed.

( Dedicated to all invisible women who work at home without ever getting paid.) 


Feeling that sense of getting lost in the middle of the music, the only one
Without thinking that an audience judges
Get out of the sheet that sweats to go back into the dispersed intercourse
Over time that changes in beating a burning iron
With blood that spits and kills whoever helps, then scrutinizes
I move each strand of my puppet with subtle movements
But mine is a puppet who knows who is driving him, it is he who cuts his strings
It is the statue that is erected by enthusiasm and left to that guano he wears
A standing run, a cross on the ground
A vice, a hug, a patch, a tear, a violent silence
A voice, a mouth, a threshold, a light
A moon, a desire, a shape, a need, a woman, a pride, a retort, a sunset
A beach, a fate that I write, a fate that I live
A road that starts from here. 


I know how important presence is. To be there, what a beautiful word. Beyond distances, time and logic, we are able to carry within us even those we can no longer have close to us, and this strange measure of things betrays the embarrassment that certain distances have, when they forget the infinite importance of memory. . Memory is stubborn and when it takes it into her head to save a memory, it saves it. And he knows how to defend it and he knows how to protect it. For example, I only think of you twice a day. When I’m alone and when I’m with someone else. You are ubiquitous in me. Even now that you are not there and I am writing to you without you knowing. Perhaps, if I had told you, you would have understood that everything I want for me I want for you too and that even if it is often not right, it is always for a good purpose. Of everything I like, I’ve always taken two, one for me and one for you.
Sometimes you meet a person who is not meant for you but you keep bumping into that wall. I am tired of apparent solutions. About my stubborn feelings and all the times when reading a message or waiting for it I thought “Maybe I’m the problem”. In the end, I admit, you were right. You were right when you said I was too impatient. Impatient were my feet, my hands. But the heart no, he knew how to wait, to wait for you. And if I think about you, it’s because my organism after a while I’m away needs to think about the things that make it feel alive. I had the words impatient that they could not shut up when they wanted to be right. I had to stop contradicting you when you said you weren’t the right person for me. You were the right person to understand that decisions made when excited then make you feel damn stupid when exhausted. Now I don’t want to be too happy because of you. I always run away and I never have time to get attached “.


I decided: I also knocked down the last walls I had left.

I have to tell you: the more nights pass the more I think exclusively of you.

And not just because the world and its colors draw your shape everywhere.


I'm the one who chooses to think of you.

I think I have hidden something immense in me,

and now that I have opened it,

slowly, the door,

he comes out with sweet vehemence,

taking space and its forms

and always screaming your name.

I know well that you have other and others to which you can place your interest.

I can understand that. Maybe accept it.

But I do not care.

Your monosyllables will never stop the dam of love that overflows in my veins.

It is no coincidence that the blue protagonist of the previous letters has chosen to leave and, not having other inks similar to that,

black and his conviction, determination and firmness can be my guide for what changes in me.

I heard you talking to Aria and giving her advice ... how funny to find yourself talking about us, talking about others.

I can't let my guard down:

there are still many situations to be resolved and dissolved.

But please never think that I may be fake or disguised.

I protect what surrounds us so that everyone can breathe clean air.

But I'm still me ... and your eyes know it.

You undress me, you make me take my breath away,

you steal my sleep, you dance naked in the chamber of my soul, you spray jealousy everywhere.

I know, I should take the reins and stand up to you. But how can I ever if my head is swinging between your legs and your arms?

Or between your shoulders and your belly?

Yeah ... I didn't sleep a wink to everything inside me screaming:

you who flirt with him.

You who think back to her.

And me? Where am I?

In past scars?

Among the unfulfilled dreams?

In the long limbo of the useless infatuations that one feels when everything around is big and inside is still to be discovered?

I do not know.

And maybe I'll never know.

What I know is that your image has never abandoned me and I have always hoped that it would come back to think of me.

Also to take revenge on the timing.

And now?

Leave you alone? Observe your kisses?

Try to pinch yourself? Show coldness? Continue to leave free the compliment and the eye that is always looking for you?

Or escape like that evening of tachycardia?

What a fool my heart ... (in love?)

He would like answers from those who have always kept silent.

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