All these things will be forgotten,
all these things will be drowned,
all these things will be just memories,
the world will no longer have this image,
and the sadness of knowing what will happen makes me drown,
it makes me water,
I dream of the sea,
I dream of it.
Sand under the sea,
but when the high seas will come
there will be no sand but only the end of this land as I see it now.
All things will become different and this scares me
and I don't know why all this will be allowed,
why does God want to extinguish man again?
I have no answers,
maybe he doesn't have them either,
he is thinking about it,
he is deciding whether to do it or not,
whether to give us a chance,
but he sees the hatred and the war,
and the violence,
and how can he say that we are still one thing good?
There is always an anchor. A detail that we keep. A voiceless message. A stain. A harmless visual detail that remains detached from all the pain. A light that survives a farewell. An image that passes directly from the transience of the moment to the fixity of memories. An image that becomes for us a vehicle of the hidden indexicality of those we have loved.
That image accompanies us over time. We recognize it from the contours even from a distance. It flickers in us like the flame of a candle but does not seem to go out. Even his absence becomes unthinkable. Every time we try to turn it into a shadow and let it go, its melancholy and circular appearance triggers an emotional return in us. As if by magic, the image re-emerges, appears before our eyes and forcefully reaffirms its presence, unraveling in a tangle of blinding lights that remind us of the subject of our love.
I too have kept an image of you, immersed in the yellow glow of the Sisto bridge lamps, suspended in the glow of those lights like a small fire that, regardless of the wind, continues to burn.
Occasionally, that image is briefly visible; others, it spreads out like a bright patch of sun with defined contours, edging the animated streets with its light. There are times when it skilfully camouflages itself in pools of water with yellowish reflections, times when it swings gently in rounded shadows and times when it spreads out in numerous irregular stripes, branching as far as the eye can see and casting its light even on the sharpness of the stones.
Every single time, however, your image brings up at night everything that remains hidden during the day: the clear light of a love that, like a golden sky, continues to survive the uncertain shadow of its sunset.
The image of the woman is
still used in advertisements
to attract male attention.
The image of the woman used to
awaken the male desire on which
the world of marketing is based.
we stayed on the same levels.
Even in the movies you often
see a completely naked woman
but you never see a completely
naked man.
The image of the woman is
still used in advertisements
to attract male attention.
The image of the woman used to
awaken the male desire on which
the world of marketing is based.
we stayed on the same levels.
Even in the movies you often
see a completely naked woman
but you never see a completely
naked man.
THE PRODIGY OF IDEAS 