You once had a country. You once had a body. Once there was a warrior girl. She does this at night, when she can't sleep: she closes her eyes and ritually runs her fingertips over the geography of her face. Years of childhood and family recede and sink, replaced by valleys and mountains of scar tissue and aging. Under the right eye, where the cheekbone begins, the war years. His adolescence incinerated. At the root of the nose, the burnt skin wrinkles, almost in a spiral, and with the imagination, one feels how, in all of us, love and fury are close. We try to pretend that they are the opposite of each other, or two opposite poles, but in reality they meet in the center of the forehead. They form a bridge, a bond. She hears the narration of faith at the bridge of the nose. It would be very easy for her to finger drill her skull into the gray matter.
Near the jaw, against the edge of my mouth, I feel the people I once loved: the mother. The bear. The dog. And then what I have come to love in fatigue and endurance. Comrades and companions in arms. "Love" is a word that always has explosive definitions gathered in the corners of the mouth, a mouth that now resembles a jagged gash, hostile to any expression, open only to cry and prayer.
In the skin I bear the mark of the original wound. I live in the killer's body; I live in the body of someone who could give life. What is the meaning of giving life? That's the kind of question I'm asking myself now. A meaningless question.
Whatever life forms are left on earth, whoever writhes through their miserable existence as worms, this is a drama in which I have no part.
This is not a simple face deposit. This is also a prisoner depot. They have been conducting this bizarre dance for years: they choose the face. They charge. They wait.


Love kills love when it has the fear of losing it.
Love costs a whole heart.
A code to reset the inner network.
Just a date.
Just one place.
Time coordinates.
To cut off an astral beat.
Two that get confused.
A woodworm that gnaws.
Fossa inside the chest.
Toads in the brain.
Lick every layer of dream.
Procedures for not doing the same things.
The need to make a gesture without making the purpose of it understood.
A woodworm that gnaws.
A sea that reaches the heart.
Storms of sentimental outbursts.
I produce poison.
Oh my flower.
Macerated with suspicions.
Oh my flower,
dare to stand under a waterfall of wax.
A mixture of innocence and ardor, twisted on the same branch.


L'amore uccide l'amore quando possiede la paura di perderlo. 
L'amore costa un cuore intero. 
Un codice per resettare la rete interiore. 
Solo una data. 
Solo un luogo. 
Coordinate temporali. 
Per recidere un battito astrale. 
Due che si confondono. 
Un tarlo che rode. 
Fossa dentro al torace. 
Rospi nel cervello. 
Lecca ogni strato di sogno. 
Procedure per non fare le stesse cose. 
La necessità di compiere un gesto senza far capire il fine di tale. 
Un tarlo che rode. 
Un mare che arriva nel cuore. 
Tempeste di sfoghi sentimentali. 
Produco veleno. 
O mio fiore. 
Macerati di sospiri. 
O mio fiore,
ardisci stare sotto una cascata di cera. 
Un misto d'innocenza e ardore, attorcigliati allo stesso ramo. 


The idea of ​​getting into the mind of a serial killer is not new. But dealing with the different unconscious and conscious parts of such a complex individual is quite another thing. Very strong scenes. A plot with characters at the extreme of sadism.
And his world is a wonderful world. Many truly creepy killer faces, many spectacular settings. In reality, even if we are faced with a world only of “fantasy”, we must still respect a certain psychological care of the plot (in that world we must find the traumas that made that man become a monster and know where to intervene to help him ).
If you are very emotional then I don’t recommend it.


Maybe some of you know that I don't like reading romance novels but I prefer to read thriller and mystery books. So I wanted to dedicate this post to the Thriller writers I already know and if you know others that are so good, please let me know.


Before achieving success with her literary career, she was also a journalist and computer analyst for the Virginia Institute of Forensic Medicine. This assignment allowed her to build with attention to detail and detail her most famous character, the well-known Kay Scarpetta, protagonist of a series that now includes more than twenty titles::
Postmortem is Patricia Cornwell’s first novel, published in 1990. The novel marks the beginning of a new genre of detective stories, where the investigation of the crime scene and the interrogation of the suspects are combined with the scientific and detailed analysis of the victims’ bodies. The heroine Kay Scarpetta, in fact, is not a detective, but a doctor, capable of reconstructing the modus operandi of a serial killer with the imperceptible traces he leaves behind: DNA, fibers, footprints. Science turns into adventure, suspense and fascination. Postmortem is the only novel to have ever won seven US literary prizes dedicated to detective stories in a single year: Edgard Award, Creasey Award, Anthony Award, Macavity Award and the French Prix du Roman d’Aventure.
KAY SCARPETTA is a character inspired by the Italian-born coroner Marcella Farinelli Fierro, born in 1941 and currently retired after being one of the first women to become a legal pathologist in the United States.
Portrait of a Killer (2002) is an investigative book by Patricia Cornwell, the result of years of research. The volume exposes the theory of the author who recognizes in Walter Sickert, a famous English painter of the late nineteenth century, the notorious serial killer Jack the Ripper. The research led Cornwell to spend huge sums to purchase a series of Sickert paintings (later donated to Harvard University) and documents of the time, including letters the “ripper” sent to the police; all in order to find the proofs (in his opinion definitive) that would nail the painter to the role of “ripper”. The book describes the life of slums in late nineteenth-century London, but the writer’s thesis has not met with favor with historians.
Just over six feet tall, blonde, blue eyes, busty, little makeup and only a Breitling B52 as an ornament, charming and aware, Kay Scarpetta was born in 1954 in Miami but has Italian origins, Veronese to be precise: both his parents come from this Italian city. As a young man she lived the experience of seeing her father die of leukemia, which certainly marked her and influenced her choice of work in which she has a close relationship with death. At around forty, when we first meet her, she has just accepted the position of director of the Virginia Institute of Forensic Medicine, and is also the director of the National Forensic Academy in Hollywood, Florida. During the series, after Richmond, he will be in Charleston, Miami, Boston and will occasionally travel for various consultations. She is very competent and scrupulous in her work, which, combined with a high moral caliber, leads her to be appreciated and esteemed in her field. She likes to dress in an elegant but sober way, suitable for her role in society; she has a great passion for cooking – obviously the Italian one – which relaxes her and distracts her from the worries related to her work. A perfectionist in everything, Scarpetta loves to control everything both at work and in the kitchen: she has a professional kitchen and she likes to prepare everything herself, even the most elaborate things. She has a colleague and friend who is a police officer who always accompanies her, Pete Marino, a companion who will later become her husband, Benton Wesley, and a niece she cares particularly much about, Lucy.
Kay Scarpetta, the famous character of Patricia Cornwell becomes cinema – Phyllis Nagy to the script. Fox brings a series of novels by Patricia Cornwell to theaters with Angelina Jolie as the famous detective. Angelina is already talking to producers and writers to bring Kay to the screen, but nothing is known yet about which of the books will be adapted, and when the film will start.



She was killed at just 14 years old, 
by the man who was to love and protect her.
 Her name was Romina Ashrafi a
nd it is the BBC to tell her story,
 who has traveled around the world from Iran: 
the young woman had fled from home with 
a 35-year-old man she loved and wanted to marry,
 but my father has punished by killing her horribly, 
beheading her with a scythe
 while she was in her bed.

%d bloggers like this: