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### Marcello P Bellodi

## The war is over

The war is over

Copyright © 2012 Zerounoundici Edizioni

ISBN: 978-88-6578-143-2

On cover: Image Shutterstock.com

This book derives from the imagination and the mind of the author.

Every reference to facts, places, things, people, drugs, city, hotels, animals, alcoholic, thoughts, deliriums, religions, ghosts, phobias, rivers, film and prophets it is him to consider purely or unintentionally casual.

This novel is a lie, despite can be likely,

reality has been deformed to the aesthetical thin solos and of narration.

Any advertising you/he/she has been abused during the layout of this book.

### Anybody

Dear Anybody, to die is not then the worse thing that can happen to a man. It looks at me: I have been being dead for three days and I have finally found the peace. You always said that my life was suspended to a thread, beh... now also yours is suspended to a thread and they is in many to want that thread to cut him/it; but you like to risk, it is your way of feeling you alive. Do you see here, is the difference between me and you perhaps all here: me, when I understood that there was a trouble in sight, if I was able did I avoid him/it; you no, if the trouble there is not do you invent him/it to you, and then you resolve everything leaving the worth to another, so you can keep on being anybody; it is not ache thought, do you know?

But this time you have played big and they are already in too many to know that you are someone, so you will also end you to reveal you a name, and then you will see that you won't have time anymore to play, and it will be hard more and more, until even you will also find you one who wants to put you in the history and to return to be anybody, he can die only.

Beh, of now in then you will have to walk in my shoes and it will perhaps pass you of that whole desire to laugh that you have there. But a thing you are able her/it he/she anchors to do: to preserve some that illusion that made to move us others, those of the old generation, and even if you will do him/it with your usual joke tone we will be the same thankful of it; because after all, to my times we were romantic, we still believed to be able to resolve everything confrontation with a good hit of gun, then the west was immense, boundless, desert, a place where he/she didn't meet twice never him the same person.

Then? Then you have arrived, and have become small, crowded, continually meets us!

Yet, if you can go around still catching flies, you can also do him/it because first there have been those as me. Yes, those that have to end on the books of school because people also have to believe in something, as you say you. But you won't be able certain to still do him/it for a lot of time. The country is grown, you/he/she is changed, I don't recognize him/it more and I already feel it foreigner. But what is worse, is that violence is also changed; is organized! And a good hit of gun is not enough anymore.

But you already know him/it, because this is your time, not more mine. By the way I have also found the ethic of the tale that your grandfather told, yes that of the birdie that the cow had covered with merda to make him/it star warm and that you/he/she was out then taut and eaten by the coyote. It is the ethic of the new times: not all those that throw you some merda I set they do him/it to hurt you, not all those that throw you out of the merda they do him/it to do you some good. But above all, when you are in the merda up to the neck, it is' silent.

Therefore, one as me have to leave, and I have to say the truth: yours has been a good idea to the height of the new times. With your false duel, you have found the cleanest way to make to go out me of the West. After all I am tired, and the years don't make any wise, they do only of the old ones, it is true that you/he/she can be been as you, young people of years and old men of times. Am I spitting sentences eh? But is it your guilt: as you want that I/you/he/she speak a national monument?

I wish you to meet one of those that you/they never meet him, or almost never, so you can make company. For me it is difficult that the miracle repeats him, but as it is said... the distance does dearrer the friendship and the absence it does her/it more dessert. But now that I have not seen you for three days, I already start to feel your lack.

Beh, owes now you really to leave, and even if you are a big snoop rompiscatole and meddler, thanks of everything.

Ah, forgot, when you go to the barber, insureds that behind the apron there is always the correct face.

From the film" my name is Anybody", 1973

### Francis

I woke up with the closed eyes.

An enormous pain to the head prevented me from opening them. The only thing that I succeeded in feeling they were the mucous ones of the mouth shoals, the lips that threw and the language that curled up for the lack of saliva. I tried to swallow more times, only hearing an acute pain to the throat. I became me account that I was extended on a soft surface, perhaps a bed or a couch. I tried to start my body: the feet, the calves, the gluteis, the right arm. The left arm seemed not to answer to the stimuli that the brain was sending him. I felt under it to the breast. I turned a couple of times me on myself and I realized me that the arm was totally deprived of sensibility. It seemed an extraneous arm the arm of a corpse. I had to pick him/it up and to lift him/it with the other hand. Blood started to flow back, I felt him/it to flow impetuous from the shoulder up to the point of the fingers and I let me escape a cry of pain confused by a hysterical laughter. I kept on not succeeding in opening the eyes. Eyelids give it didn't filter light. I didn't know what time it was, in that place I was me and the memoirs were piled up in my mind. I cleared up me the throat, swallowing. The mucous ones of the mouth began to soften, the muscles to have a certain mobility.

I opened the eyes.

I had to take me some second to succeed in putting to fire what it surrounded me. I recognized my bed, his/her sheets and above of me the skylight from which a dark and dark sky was glimpse. I turned me different times in the bed before putting me in knee and to improvise a sort of stretching. The back made a left crack. I built me and I made a will for some according to my equilibrium. I found me suit, in jacket and jeans. I had to be me dormant or more probably to have fainted. The bed was still incredibly what it stayed of my outline it was on the wrong side among the sheets. The clock marked you are her and a quarter but I didn't know if it were day or evening. I returned me to clear the voice and I rubbed me the face.

From the handrail of the loft on which the bed was found I succeeded in seeing the whole loft. I found nearby really there my sight glasses. The vision of that that a catastrophic scenery was preannounced showed to be more dramatic than the expectation.

In the head they started to rearrange him the images. There had been a party and more than the expectation you/he/she had to have lasted. Supported to the handrail I succeeded in distinguishing different bottles of rum, vodka and gin. The scattered glasses some anywhere, some half voids, other half heights. A bottle of Chianti, remembered very well her to me, it was inverted between the couch and the tavolino. A pillow had been completely torn, the tv sent who knows in loop from how much times by now a porno dvd. Bread's pieces, salatini, peels of lemon and orange were shed some anywhere on the floor. The door of house had just approached.

I gone down the staircases trying to decontrol the neck, I taken a cardboard of juice of fruit found on the table, the shaken ones and I drank a sip of it. The odor to the plain earth was nauseating and I kicked the remnants of the party that I was me before. I extinguished the dvd as soon as before the big and sturdy black came on the enormous breasts of a platinata actress porno. The channel satellitare of the newses pointed out the six and trentasette of the morning. I made an express mental account: I had almost slept one day.

The memoirs were confused. I remembered a party, of people that sang and they howled in my loft. Of undressed girls, of you palpate of breasts of a sniff of cocaine and a reed. I remembered a battle of salatini, of a competition to whom was attached more seconds to the bottle of vodka, of one friend of mine fainted in bath, of the malicious giggles of the girls while two were measured the proper bird in front of them. I had organized her I, was one of the so many. But that time I understood to decidedly have exaggerated. The stomach burned me terribly, the eyes were heavy and a strong pain pulsated me to the temples. I found for earth cigarette butts of cigarettes, tobaccos and torn business cards; stubs of spinelli were found on top of the ashtray stracolmo.

The bath had covered partly from dust whitish and I found really of side to the water a banknote from fifty European rolled up. I picked up the dust white with a finger and I vigorously rubbed her/it to me on the gums. That gesture waked up again in my mouth a strange taste of metallic, of blood. I opened the specchiera in front of me after being studies me the enormous occhiaies. I threw down a pair of aspirins drinking the ferrous water that went out of the sink.

Before entering shower I had who knows to make the accounts with an used condom left there from who, even really from me. But I didn't remember me.

Hot water loosened me the neck, the memoirs they were done more and more confused in my mind. I remained under the shower indefinite once, almost to want to loosen the ice that my thoughts imprisoned.

I found the jail cell I pour again on the floor, out. It was unloaded. I hardly attached him/it to the charger and the power on ones quarantacinque warning messages of call they arrived. I cancelled them all, without not even seeing who had looked for me. I took a seat me on the couch and I allowed to fall back the head to the closing the eyes. I felt under my body in transpiration to the expensive bathrobe that my mother had given me for Christmas. Out the city he was waking up. The noise of the traffic confused him with the rain that beat on the asphalt.

I listened to these noises mixarsi in my ears, the pulsating pain to the temples he was growing weak, the body he was relaxing. I mentally saw my breast swell himself/herself/themselves and to go down himself/herself/themselves according to my breath. I had to return in life. I knew that I had to make some things, that a happy sadness had to which to make account and a job to develop.

The jail cell rang.

Cristina.

The display illuminated its name, I remained to stare at him/it without not even the thought to answer her. It lasted about one minute, then it stopped. They passed few seconds and resumptions to ring. It did so for other five times before I decided me to answer.

Cristina was to the party. The thought had returned floating as soon as I saw its name on the telephone. You/he/she had been the whole evening sat on the couch with the glass of wine in hand. I think both is the only one in the whole evening. It fixed and it studied every movement of mine, every gesture of mine, every look of mine.

«Tell me.»

«Francis! But where cazzo are you ended? It is since yesterday that I look for you!»

«Eh, doesn't know him/it. I have been busy, I believe. Do tell me, are there problems?»

«No, nothing. I wanted only to know where you were, as you were. I thought I told me something after the party.»

«I have told you him, I was busy.»

«It suits you to go to eat together something tonight?»

«Boh, yes. It is all right. I don't know him/it.»

«At eight o'clock they are from you.»

«To the eight six from the me.»

I attacked again without greeting and without understanding indeed thing had told me.

I closed the eyes for some second before going in the kitchen to prepare me a cup of coffee. I took a seat me to table, sipping. I turned on the stereo, Lover You Should've As Over it flooded the whole space of an ethereal peace and calm. The notes dispersed him in the air, fluctuating deprived of happiness and melancholy. Sterile. If in the preceding hours my heart beat irregular unpacked by the alcohol and by the drugs, it now tried to follow the rhythm of the song. Beating and sincopando. To close the eyes seemed not to be enough to assimilate all together Jeff Buckley. Magic faded away after few more than six minutes, endless. The traffic bossily entered the sonorous space of the room.

I succeeded only thanks to the calendar of the pin-ups that I had bought for Los Angeles New Year's eve to have again clear the temporal picture. It was Tuesday, the party was initiated Sunday evening and probably ended to the first hours of Monday morning. I owed to have lost the senses to late night and remained being I deprive of knowledge up to the moment of my awakening.

I threw myself in the wardrobe that was a melting-pot of heads of attire of every brand and coming from all the parts of the globe. I was fierce of that wardrobes. It perfumed of world, of style, of lived things. It was frequent to find in the pockets of the jackets or the pantalonis tickets, banknotes or you address that told as you suspect polizieschi a history that you/they knew only their.

The summer he was exhausting by now, leaving the place to the warm colors of the trees of the avenue, I had been shaking for the imminent autumn. I closed the front door behind of me and wound by the overcoat Burberry I smoked me the first cigarette of the day. You/he/she had stopped raining, the sidewalk perfumed of dry leaves. The city woke up and I remained in front of the front door of house to do the full one of nicotine.

The advertising agency for which I worked was on the same avenue of my house. One hundred civic numbers down. A quarter of now afoot.

The Boss had founded the agency ex-novo about ten years first: returned from the United States, illuminated by their working system and by so many ideas, you/he/she was dismissed by that for which he/she worked and you/he/she had founded his one of it. Third in Italy for incomes and number of clients, it was inspired in everything and for everything to the Google. The contracts were free, the assumptions were made not for experience or for age but for ability. The agency was kept to start a real investigation on the candidate to sift the potentialities, the culture, the aspirations, the hobbieses and the dreams of it. Only a person really motivated, charismatic, visionary and inspiring it deserved the attention of the Boss. Schedules of job didn't exist, Monday neither so much less Sundays. To the proper team you/he/she was assigned a project, an advertising country and a fear jobs of it of end. The team had white paper on the schedules of job, that were in the daytime or at night, of Tuesday rather than of Saturday. Besides the Boss assigned a proper budget for the search, that dealt with tickets for museums of natural history rather than a ticket gone and return for Tokyo to study the dynamics of the clientele in comparison to the musical planning in the store of Banana Republic. The main point was that at the end of the pre-arranged time the client had his/her advertising country, that was approved and that he left a signature above to a consistent check. This guaranteed a monthly salary esteemed around the four zero. Anymore the prizes of production.

I had graduated in Modern Letters and the Boss you/he/she had noticed my curriculum four months later. I didn't have any experience in the advertising field but the Boss after five interviews you/he/she had decided to invest on me. You/they had struck him my tenacity, my cynicism, my perseverance in the study and the immoderate passion for the fashion, the tendency, besides a brain" until and acute." You/he/she had defined really this way it. You/he/she had told me that I would have" seduced the publicity with cynics pregnant words of hidden meanings and subliminal messages." I passed from aspirant copywriter to creative manager in less than four years. To the active cinquantadue advertising countries of success, among which those of a yogurt, a bra, a liquid soap, a magazine, a disco, a clock, an auto, a line of masculine attire. Now I spent my days sat to the desk with my team to write on the last circulating Mac an advertising country that would have seduced and confused million of possible acquirenti,oppure on a photographic set with beautiful ready models to also excite the most frigid of the males or to the parades of fashion to New York and the worldly parties with the name inserted in the vip list. To twenty-eight I had already arrived and I was not never even me aware to have departed.

«Good morning Francis.» Maria told me the reception.

I made her the military regard without opening mouth. I reflexes in the ample glass door his/her eyes that followed me while I was continuing for the corridor.

I entered office: Giovanni slept supported to the desk hiding the face among the cross braccias, with Vogue opened on the head. I threw the Burberry on the clothes-stand and more I drew near me to my colleague I could feel from there the heavy breath. On the screen of his/her Mac it was open PornHub on what it made the video of a young girl that had a good time with a false fault applied to a drill. I took Vogue from his head and I beat him/it violently on the desk. Giovanni went off back to the howling frightened. On the left cheek, under the uncultivated beard, the sign of the clock was printed.

«What cazzo you make ugly piece of stupid!»

It chewed to empty a couple of times to stretch him the jaw. Giovanni had the completely stunned hair from the sleep and dams with a rapid ctrl+Q all the images on the Mac. You poured in the cup of the Lakerses coffee up to the edge.

«Where cazzo you have been? The Spaniards want not the country of the line of cosmetic over fifteen days. And you disappear!» it shouted me with still the sleep in mouth. «I am since yesterday here afternoon to throw down some idea and then we have to choose the models for the service that will go on the magazines and on the 6x3.»

«I have lost the senses» I told him while I was giving to eat to Sodoma and Gomorra, our two Pteroises volitans, more commonly known as fishes Scorpio. Gift of Christmas of the Boss to the return from his/her trip in Polinesia. Above to the aquarium a sheet A4 of warning camped": I watch You. To the first cazzata you make you a bath in a tub full of these. They wait you for pain to the head, nausea, vomit, abdominal cramps, paralysis to the limbs, iper or ipotensione, respiratory difficulty, ischemia of the miocardio, lungworm, syncopation. GOOD JOB! Boss."

«It doesn't rub a cazzo of it if you lose the senses or you die, first we have to end the country. You hold these composits of Elite in Milan to choose the model. You see to do him/it before tonight» and it launched them to me on the desk.

I turned on the portable one while I skimmed through them. For the country it served an enough transgressive face. I found her. You is sat on a chair, to cross legs, dressed only of black lingerie and a fifty-fifty cigarette in mouth. It had the same physiognomy of Kate Moss.

«Hey you, man. Do you have some coke?» I asked with the look still lost among the ecstasy of that bodies.

«You hold» it told me launching me a pouch full of poor. Of it spread out carefully a pair of strips on the back of the hand. I threw strong, upsetting back quickly the head to the not to solicit too much the mucous ones any nose.

«Giovanni, hold! We pick up Jennifer. You make to prepare the day after tomorrow the set for. Annulled of the Management Resources it has the numbers of the photographers. Day to the cosmeticians that it has to be simple, no heavy makeups, apart the lipstick, obviously. Transgressive he/she doesn't want to say for strength sow. I go out.»

I had different mail with which to have to make the accounts some clients that asked for updatings and two from the Boss. The rest they were enlarge your penis.

«How you go out? Where cazzo do you go? And the suits?»

«Nothing. Hi.»

Discovery Channel was about to transmit a documentary on the missions of the Nasa. I opened a bottle of Chianti and a packet of nachos. I deeply once sat on my dear couch and I lengthened the feet on the wood tavolino in front of me. The jail cell rang, I extracted him/it from the pocket and I extinguished him/it without looking who pits.

The spatial nacelles and the Apollos were dancing in the cosmic space as they did those of 2001: Odyssey in the Space on the classical music. Armstrong and Aldrin skipped about on the moon and I wondered me where you/they had hidden the laser swords. I stuck me to the neck of the bottle of wine swallowing big sips of Chianti. I did as soon as in time to put in mouth the fifth nachos that the sound of the bell made me jolt.

Porca sow, Cristina.

«Yes, who is?» I answered to the intercom.

«Francis, is Cristina. Do we go?»

«I am sorry but I don't feel well at all me and I cannot afford to take cold and to get sick. You give, I call you back me» I told her covering me the nose with two fingers, faking a sudden cold.

«No, you never call me back, make to climb me that I prepare you something of heat.»

I could not bear that closed girl among the four boundaries of house. Cristina was really a crash, would have had a model future if only you/he/she had believed us instead of ending order in the shop of Gucci. Some intrusive was correct towards my life: in love perdutamente as it was, he/she refused to detach himself/herself/themselves. Game as friend of a friend, he was autopromossa in the turn of a few months to hateful rompicoglioni. I had known her to one some party to tall alcoholic rate, I had thought well of limonarci big part of the evening and bottom suggestion of the different rums that I had in the stomach I had promised her all of this that she desired. I had thought that it was a good weapon to bring in bed me her and not to feel anymore her but she had taken seriously me. I made the big error to let that borderline overcome more only her among the being a friend and being something. From that day he/she always called me, it brought me to unlikely light suppers of candle and he/she wanted to always be informed of my life and of my job. I think pits his/her way to show what it tried for me.

That evening I could not absolutely bear his/her sermons, better going out and to lose her/it in the confusion of some local.

«But I am better perhaps some, give me five minutes and I go down.»

You/he/she was waiting me with the power on auto really in front of the front door.

«Where it brings me, Miss? Guide her?»

«Yes, I drive me. It is a surprise» it gave me a kiss on the cheek, grazing me the lips on the angle of the mouth.

You/he/she had booked in a sushi cafe. A kind waiter from the almond eyes he/she took our capottis and it returned with the menù. Read with attention all the names to try to understand of thing they were composed that foods. Fifty-fifty arrival, the waiter returned.

«We take two sushi and mixed sashimi, an ussuzukuri, a futomaki and two hot roll. And two beers. Thanks.»

«Pel the signole?»

«To place so» it said Cristina raising me every word from the mouth.

The waiter took me the menù from the hands and brought the leaflet where you/he/she had taken the ordinations to the chef, that was shaking a cutlass in the kitchen you/he/she posts really in the middle of the place, probably trying to murder some poor innocent fish.

I became at that time only me account that is sat on the floor above to a pillow from the floral motives. Impossible to find a comfortable position: first I opted for being on the knees and I ended to cross legs with a strong pain to the back.

Once found the least painful position, Cristina began to caress me the face.

«You have frightened me when yesterday you didn't answer me to the telephone. I will have called you ten times.»

«I have told you him, I was not so much good and then I was busy.»

«Eh but you cannot treat yourself so, it is not all right. You should be to my house, I would take me care me of you and I would make you stop drinking everything that wine and all that alcoholic that turn to your house.»

«Not to worry you, knows what I do.»

«No, you don't know him/it, I don't like you to reduce always yourself this way. Then who were those that were to the party? I didn't like they, they tried us with you. And do that your so vulgar friends, know him/it that you/they have thrown out their coso in front of those two to make to be said who had him longer?»

«And who had him longer?»

«Francis! Enough!»

In the meantime all the ordinations arrived in once, the waiter was forced to also use the near tavolino to support the dishes. I was not sorry the sushi, even if I have to say that I was not a great fan of it. Above all because I am not a great lover of the fish. Cristina kept on speaking all evening, disquisendo and criticizing every aspect of my life of my job and of my frequentazionis. It tried to make to tell me all the appointments that I had in the following days, the parties and the appointments of job. He/she asked a couple of times me if I could go to sleep from her, if it went me to make one weekend in mountain and if you/he/she could give me a jail cell, that I had to always hold power on so you/he/she could track me every time that he/she wanted down.

While it was returning from the bath it stopped him to pay the account. Well.

It brought me in front of house and it extinguished the auto.

«I have a thing for you» it said supporting the hand to few centimeters from my groin.

It held a package gift.

«Discard him/it, from the.»

I removed the tassel and I tore the paper. It was a cellular telephone.

«There is already some credit inside, so you can always find me and I can call when I want.»

«Oh, thanks, but how nice. But it is really the last model. You didn't have to disturb you, thanks.» My recitative tone was derision mixture and false amazement. I tried to give her a kiss on the cheek and her it immediately went to the search of my lips. The takings for half.

As a little boy that asks ten European to his/her/their mother and after the refusal asks one hundred of them, Cristina caressed the flap of my pantalonis.

«Any trouble. Rather, if you want I can make you other gifts. No?»

I opened of release the door of the auto and I did for going down.

«No, you don't have to disturb you, thanks for the evening. You have been nice. I call you back me.»

«You love me?» it howled to it tears throat.

«Tomorrow.»

It waited that I entered from the front door before leaving again, as I did me to diciott'anni with the my first engaged of it, and a kiss stamped him on the hand that sent me with a puff. That gesture made me go up again an effort of nervous.

I arrived above in the house, I breathed a sigh of relief and it escaped me a whispered vaffanculo.

Hardly close to the couch it waited me for the bottle of Chianti that I had opened some hour before. I took a seat me and I tried to remain us attached until the breath it allowed me him.

I allowed to slip the empty bottle on the carpet. The last time that I checked the clock Marc Jacobs that I brought ten minutes the wrist missed to midnight.

Giovanni had sent me a sms": Hey captain, set organized for 6 pm. You are not able and you don't have to miss. It models a lot of figa, good choice."

I looked me for the nth time in the mirror of the bath. The occhiaies were made more and more marked, the uncultivated beard hid as soon as a pale and pale face. Cocaine gave me the strength to go on on the job and I was forced to take some pills to be able to sleep a few times.

Before going out I saw on the table the jail cell that Cristina had given me. I turned him/it to me in the hands, thinking about the destiny that waited for him/it. I did for placing him/it when it flashed me in head an idea and so I inserted him/it in the purse.

The set was prepared in one of the creative rooms of the agency. Big lighthouses illuminated a white cloth, bent. The technicians were making a will the lights, the flashes and the indicators of the times of laying. The photographer from the thick curly head of hair was hidden from a scarf that the face almost all covered her. It minutely checked the objectives to climb on and it went off with a polaroid of the beta photos to a cosmetician that momentarily acted from model.

Giovanni came me meeting taking me sottobraccio.

«Captain, the ship is setting sail. It is everything hello. If we are good, in the turn of a couple of hours we have ended. Tomorrow we will be ready to have the definitive ones to send to the graphs.»

«Well. Excellent, sergeant.»

It brought me from the photographer but my look he was losing in the room to the search of Jennifer. I located her session on a chair, wound in a red bathrobe.

«Captain, she is Chiara. The photographer.»

«To like. I am Francis, the creative manager.»

You limited him to shake me the hand while it was keeping on checking the objectives; my thought was tense to go to know the model. Our eyes were almost crossed for error, when she taken the photographic car and my look followed Jennifer that he was positioning under the reflectors. Chiara damped a smile. There was a shake that the back went up again me.

I lengthened the overcoat to the assistant, Giovanni it brought me to the table of the catering and a cup of coffee offered me.

«Now the show starts» it said Giovanni sgomitandomi.

Jennifer positioned in the middle of the white cloth and allowed to slip the red bathrobe that an assistant didn't even pick up you/he/she was a religious relic. The lights extinguished him, leaving illuminates only her from the lighthouses. It was marvelous. You stretched on the cloth, the photographer gave her indications on the position that had to assume. Long hair went to cover the firm breasts of Jennifer, dressed only of a pair of black boots that almost arrived until to her knee. Giovanni allowed to escape a" porca sow that figa." Chiara told her to fold up the left leg so that to cover the completely trimmed pube. An assistant placed on her head a hat from the wide brim, directly projecting her/it in the seventies. The lips dressed by the lipstick that you/he/she would have had to seduce million of men they were even more redheads, illuminated by the lights of the reflectors.

Chiara began to go off the photos, my look was completely captured by that body and I wanted with everything myself to enter inside of her. The room was completely empty, we remained me, Giovanni, Chiara and the manager of Jennifer. We needed intimacy. Illuminated in that way, the model seemed to change himself/herself/themselves every according to whether you/he/she passed in a work of art. I wanted to strip me of my expensive suits and it stuffed the love on the set there. I would have let from Chiara also photograph. That thought erotic descents up to the pantalonis.

The service lasted few more than forty minutes, that seemed to last only some second. The devoted assistant removed the hat from Jennifer and helped her/it to slip himself/herself/themselves the bathrobe.

«Giovanni, goes to tell the photographer that domattina wants on your desk the definitive ones, you will choose them and you will send them to the graphs.»

«But Francis, that is as?»

«You domattina you will choose among the definitive ones and will you send them to the graphs, understood? Fanne a copy also for the Boss. I am busy.»

«Every your desire is an order, captain» it said, while I was approaching me to great footsteps toward Jennifer.

I taken a chair and I took a seat me of side to her. It had an out cigarette among the lips; erotic, it seemed a dirty goddess.

«I am Francis the creative manager. Am I able?» and the lit up the cigarette.

It inhaled a long mouthful of it and he/she left some the lipstick on the filter.

«To like to know you, I am Jennifer. But this you already know him/it, true?»

I saw her the breasts through the neckline of the bathrobe: they were small, firm and the nipples had swollen. It had the greenest eyes that I/you had ever seen. It was a perfect woman.

I made her the compliments for his/her beauty and I explained her how much big you/he/she would have been this opportunity, that would be ended on all the magazines and on all the advertising placards of Italy. I made her see the project of the country and more she the to come true of his/her dreams of more popularity it asked questions. On the first ones he/she was unfriendly and distant; at the end its hands touched mine and the tone of the voice it did more and more him confidential. I made to bring two coke and rum to heat some the atmosphere. Jennifer almost all drained him/it of a sip, decidedly taking of the excitement. I talked her of my knowledges to New York and London in the field of the fashion and some friend emergent director that looked for actresses in grass to insert in his/her productions. Jennifer was loosening to the heat of my promises, the room he was emptying; also Chiara, picked up his/her instrumentation, taken the street of the exit.

Jennifer asked if I could leave her my number of jail cell, just as I thought you/he/she would have gone. I like when goddesses of that caliber raise me to superior god: she had asked my number. In this moment she wanted as me I wanted to enter her. The promises of popularity and success are attractive more than the gold for the thievish magpies.

I threw out of the purse the jail cell that Cristina had given me.

«You hold, I have already saved you my number. There is already some credit inside, so if I have some novelties I know that I can always find you. Ah, forgot, it is possible that a girl calls yourself and you/he/she is possible that if you/he/she hears a female voice answer I/you/he/she become some hysterical. It didn't stuff case and you close the communication.»

Jennifer remained completely without words. It opened the box and it looked at the new and immaculate jail cell shine to the light of the reflectors still turned on.

I bent me some verse of her and I told her low voice:

«It suits you to come to eat something to my house? I live here to few hundred meters from.»

«It is all right» it whispered me approaching the mouth to my ear and turning then us the language inside.

«I wait out here you.»

We lifted there standing, her thanks to the heels it resulted taller than me of a pair of centimeters. It got further waddling looking satisfied his/her new gift. I set out me from the opposite part, toward the exit, with already my cigarette of the triumph among the lips.

It reached me after a quarter of now, I was already to my second cigarette. Wound in a black trench that left his/her legs open chilometriche, he/she took me by the hand and he/she left that I conducted her/it toward my loft.

I found me his/her face to few centimeters of distance, illuminated by the lights of some candles. Is sat on the floor there, on the carpet; we had ordered some vegetarian dishes from the rosticceria take-away not too far house. I had uncorked a bottle of red and her it told around me of his/her life from model for the world, bringing every now and then the glass to the mouth, bathing himself/herself/itself as soon as the lips. I ignited me a cigarette after the other, she sometimes removed from me her from the mouth and he/she took a pair of draughts of it fast. When it put again her/it to me among the lips the filter he/she knew about her: the sour one of the wine and the sweetish one of the lipstick. I saw her the naked legs, the shoes you/he/she was removed and you/he/she had cursed her for the dizzy height of the heels launching her behind of itself. Under the black trench it hid a fantastic lives unstuck, supported by two thin shoulder strap, perhaps too much elegant to hold for trips of job and decidedly still too much summer.

To every word our bodies extended to draw near more always until almost to feel the perfume of our breaths. A bottle of wine lay lifeless on the carpet, while I poured in its glass new wine, just uncorked. Alcohol surprisingly made her/it loquacious; its French lilt, its rolled up erres, the oval form that he/she took the mouth in to pronounce certain words they made her/it incredibly sexy. All of my body pulsated in erection.

My eyes lost completely the perception of I break down him/it remaining to fire on its face. That fringe disarranged that it covered her green eyes, the soft and natural lips on which he passed the fingers dirtying her to him of wine and placing her on mine. I saw his/her suit disappear I set her. By now we were so near that our mouths breathed the one the breath of the other. The lips were touched when John pronounced just to smile would lighten everything in Sexy Sadie.

Wine confused the ideas, the perceptions, the tastes and the perfumes. Our bodies were twisted naked, on the floor, only touching himself/herself/itself. Jennifer extracted from the purse a pacchettino with inside some grams of cocaine. It inserted the finger and it tasted some of it with the point of the language.

«I can offer?» it told me caressing me the breast with the hand.

I taken the pouch and I upset some of it among the breasts of Jennifer, along the belly, almost to reach the pube. It deeply when my kisses invaded its neck up to go down along the white strip that I had just drawn. I kissed her the breasts, then I dipped the nose in the dust and I gone down up to the belly. You twisted him, he/she kissed me, it touched me. I felt his/her hands tighten my sex, marvelous, white, almost immaculate, you dirty only from the fingernails lacquered of viola.

The pleasure at first damped and drowned by the wine you/he/she was taking back life, one pulsating inside the other. Our bodies contaminated him; the perfumes and the essences, the fluids mixed him. It was everything exciting, vibrating and energetic. Shake alternated him loosening us in moans to like. The mouth of Jennifer crossed every centimeter of my body, the fingers entered me mouth caressing me the language, belly against belly, I inhaled and I ate every atom of its body. You taken back the pouch with the white and we sniffed together of it, almost with the noses to touch himself/herself/themselves. Up to that a boato, a bright thunder, a stronger shake of the others, extinguished in an orgasmic black-out the whole show.

Dead, tired and wet, I invaded by the pleasure we closed the eyes together and him it did dark.

It was an alarm.

My head fluctuated as in the sidereal space, perhaps the spaceship was in damage. The alarm kept on playing, the dark of my eyes still closed veered to the red. Fire. The breath I felt him/it regulate, my cold body. Fire. The neck went off me toward left, the blood it pulsated strong to the head, to regulate. Fire, came me to mind.

I opened the eyes the light by the orange of the invaded curtains me the visual field. I made a grimace of pain.

It was not an alarm any fire. It was the jail cell that rang on the tavolino.

«Hello? Yes, who is?» I still said before supporting the telephone to the ear.

«Hey man! Ah ah ah. How who am? Your half, Giovanni. I have sent the photos to the Boss, the Boss you/he/she has sent her to the Spaniards and prepared because they come down the day after tomorrow and they pay us. IC PA-GA-NO! They go crazy as soon as you/they have seen the model, the layings and the photos, they want to close the contract and to renew for other five years. Do you return yourself account? Other five years and salaries to five zeros for us! You move your fottuto flabby culo and you come here!»

I still held the attached telephone to the ear some second. Naked, sweaty and I cool as a fetus just gone out of the uterus as a jellyfish spiaggiata, I was extended on the carpet, evidently confused.

Only after two coffees and three cigarettes my brain he woke up from the stand-by. Is sat on the cup of the water when I understood the sense of the words of Giovanni. We had the country, the Spaniards had paid, other zeros to the salary. Great. I succeeded in having the maximum one with the least effort. It is the same principle of the advertising countries to say everything with the necessary minimum of words. I began to laugh alone. I knitted then an instant the eyebrows, something it disturbed the frequencies of my thoughts. A noise of foundation. I tightened the eyes with strength as I wanted to make to go out at random that something of one of my orifices.

Cazzo, Jennifer?

Courses out of the bath crawling for earth the pantalonis that I had slipped; the belt beat violently and rhythmically on the parquet it even was not about to arrive the cavalry. Entirely naked in the mean of my loft, I realized me that Jennifer had disappeared. Of the evening the dead bodies of the bottles of Chianti that we had drunk only remained, the leftovers of the vegetarian food of the rosticceria and a black shred of cloth suspended to the handle of the door of entry. I drew near me and I picked him/it up in hand.

They were the panties of Jennifer, I sniffed her.

We lifted our full wine glasses of Cristal.

To the country, to the lipstick, to us, to Spain and, as all the masculine toasts that respect him to the attractive female organ of which all are gone out. To the Spaniards they shone in the eyes the million of European that would have arrived in their pockets, to the Boss that whole zero on the check, while in my dilated pupils the absolute predominance of the nothing. When I/you/they are overdone I have the tendency to think too much, the too many thoughts do yes to annihilate himself/herself/themselves and to become nothing. Reached the nothing I hum, first solo in my head then to low voice.

To the Boss a cramp had to have come to the arm, every fourth of it now lifted him/it and it ordered a new bottle of champagne. It was already the my fifth one or sixth trip going and return from the bath. I always returned always with the bleached nose and Giovanni him premurava to make the dirty point of my vacuum cleaner notice me.

The dances had opened. The Spaniards got excited in the middle of the footstep, surrounded from prosperous escort that the Boss was preventively gotten for giving a service full optional to his/her clients.

I got excited me in the middle of the footstep with Giovanni; we were so overdone by to make impossible to be after the other, to follow an any rhythm. The lower part pulsated in the belly.

The Boss knew how to organize the parties: that evening the whole agency was there. It needed to celebrate the money the power. Possession everything, immediately to have him/it. It needed to give him a tone, it needed to walk to swollen breast under expensive shirts, depilated, androgens. It was a social orgy, you enter my capital, I enter yours. All absolutely suits of signatures, all with the last model of anything. All perfect ones, all clean ones, all equal the one to the others. It is an alien society.

The time of the being is ended, the era of the possession starts.

Being or to have, this is the problem.

I am not he who anymore it is. From now they are he who it has.

Giovanni broke me on the counter of the cafe, you/he/she pushed too much away me from the insistent glances of the Boss. It checked on the clock the time of my trips in bath, of the runs of Giovanni, my bleached nose.

«You are here now, ok?» Giovanni told me making to sit me on a stool «you do Yourself something to drink and you see to take back you, the Boss is checking you.»

«Ok, ok, ok. I am here. Hey young! Young! A. to coke and rum.»

The barkeeper made to rotate a pair of bottles in front of itself, I had upward still the turned look when the glass introduced under me to the nose. The fottutis barkeepers jugglers. Stimuli arrived late to me, the music confused him in my head. I turned to the right me and left to try to individualize some does known. To the left an ample masculine back dressed of black, to the right a mass of curly hair they hid the identity of a girl. I remained to fix her/it some second, tightening the eyes as to want to put her/it to fire. Then she turned him, the hair the removed him from the face. Its eyes met mine and a proper smile mentioned me in face. A strange shake crossed me the whole back.

«But I know you» I told her ill-manneredly aiming her finger.

«Yes, I would say really that know me. If that Spaniards have unhooked all that money it is also thanks to my photos.»

«Chiara! You are Chiara!» keeping on holding her aimed finger «you See, I knew him/it that you are Chiara.»

«You are out.»

«Perhaps, correct some.»

Chiara was normal. So normal to result even out place. Besides that marvelous mass of curly hair, its face was candid, perfect, slightly distorted by that black glasses that made even her more interesting. It came from another planet or perhaps we was the extraterrestrials and her the only exponent remained of the human kind. I would have liked to kiss that normalcy.

«You come out. You have need to take some air and here it is an appalling boredom» it said dragging out me with an unexpected release.

Taken by the pocket of the jacket a packet of cigarettes and a lighter with drawn above Batman.

I adore Batman. With the years you/he/she has been awarded the title of my preferred supereroe. You/he/she has been a hard battle between Spiderman and he. But Batman has won with his/her usual class. Superman has always been me on the balls: too much invincible and if it threw a lot her. Spiderman has fascinated me for different years. A little boy nerd that after the bite of a spider genetically modified you/he/she can jump of skyscraper in skyscraper and to save a lot of damsels in difficulty. For different time, from child, I looked for around for house of the spiders with the hope that you/they passed me some their powers. But once known Batman has not succeeded in returning back anymore. Bruce Wayne had everything that you/he/she could desire. You/he/she could be him to fatten up on his/her expensive armchair of it in skin and it tightened him instead in that attractive tutina ipertecnologica to go to fight the crime. Without super powers, cryptoniti, cobwebs. Only him, his/her wish and his/her physical strength. Bruce Wayne was definitely a piece from ninety. It was my myth, almost anymore him that his/her alter ego Batman. Anything else other than psychoanalysis, to him all it took is lowering himself/herself/themselves in his/her overall latex sadomaso. To slip in his/her batmobile in the alleys of the most marvelous disreputable city, Gotham City. And to understand in conclusion that the whole world is a merda. After all I felt me some Bruce Wayne.

It opened the packet and a cigarette offered me.

«You hold, we go for a stroll. Does it suit you?»

«Certain, because no. You are very nice you know, you are normal.»

«You keep silent Francis, you are drunk and probably you are also overdone. I don't know of what, I don't even want him/it to know.»

We smoked both, the one of side to the other, in the proper garden in front of the disco. Chiara had hissed me. You/he/she had annulled me how come any girl until then you/he/she had ever succeeded in doing. I was usually me to arouse some subjection in the girls, perhaps because of my position in the social pyramid. But this time was Chiara to make to be me on a lower step. They spent different minutes, then she broke the silence.

«You have been me on the balls from the first moment that I have seen you. You have not even looked me in the eyes when we are introduced there. You are too much.»

«Too much?»

«Yes, you are too much. Too much of everything. You are to the nth power. You are so too, so excessive, that according to me your body hardly succeeds in containing you. Does hand a mask to hide something, true?»

I didn't succeed in saying nothing. The words missed me. Yes, an overdone tantino I was drunk ok. But in other circumstances I would have faced the situation with extreme hulling. This time Chiara was doing to me what the cryptonite did to Superman.

«According to me, behind that suit, to that way of, there is somebody else. I don't know him/it, yet you are interesting. Your excess hides a lack. You have made to overflow a vase and the continuous water to flow himself/herself/themselves on the floor and it will submerge the whole house. I tell you him because I feel me say him/it, because I see after all to that eyes something of good person.»

And Anakin Skywalker came to mind. Padme said that there was still of the good one him. This way I became Darth Vader. I wanted a laser sword and a stellar cruiser. Lost some sentences of the discourse of Chiara: I looked at her/it while I was looking for of risintonizzarmi on his/her words. Is sat on a bench there, the park was dark, absorbed in the darkness. Almost dreadful. As if also that place wanted to try to enter my subconscious. Chiara had found the key for the doors of my mints. You had understood something. There was something of wrong in me. Something of immensely and clearly wrong. I had lived my young life of excesses without getting nothing, if not things. I had a lot of things and nient'altro. The rockstars die to twenty-seven, the advertising ones to twenty-eight. I was converted me to the street of the excesses. They were them to give me the strength to bear a style of life stop, to the limit, totally inconsiderate. Possession things, luxury and notoriety it asks for to have the shiny mind the class. As the airplanes, that to be in air uses some portanza, my silver wings, to which have been anchored always, you/they were losing her/it. The voids of air were made more and more frequent, as the voids of memory. My life from a few years to that part had always been an eternal night in summer. A calm night. The quiet before the storm. The lightnings were to the horizon, and Chiara had shown them to me. I was afraid for an endless instant.

«I believe that you have lost, Francis.»

I closed the eyes and I hid me the face among the hands. I could feel the hands of Chiara caress my back, his/her words to strip me. Naked, dressed only by that suit Dior that at that time he/she didn't know about anything. Because that girl he was taking care of me? A tear went down me. Only in the dark you succeed in seeing the obscurity. I breathed deeply, protected from his/her caresses. It passed me in front of the eyes every meaningful image of my life. I didn't succeed in seeing me the face anymore. I entered a sort of mystical trance, cradled by the caresses and by the words of Chiara. When I removed the hands from the face, she had disappeared. I was alone on that bench. I doubted for an according to whether there had been never and that that had been alone an ugly trip. But on the bench there was the lighter of Batman. I attentively studied him/it turning me him among the hands. You had been there.

A normal angel.

A normal angel had entered me inside and then flies away.

I felt like crying. I was alone in the dark of that park. Only as I had always been him/it. I had reached all the destinations to which I had always inhaled. I had raced along my road losing sight my company, my affections, the horizon, the as and the why. I had raced without never stopping me without knowing the day neither the night. I had passed the finishing lines being lost in my loneliness. Possession so much you/he/she has been as not to have anything. Despite the signatures that I wore, the technology of which I was in possession, the trentasettes credit cards from the whitened edge, the shoes of brand, him zero on the checking account, I returned home and I was alone. The only company that I had was occasional or to payment. And so I have already said everything. Indeed inside of me there was a different Francis from what all knew and it were dead. At that time everything was a mask.

The night was cold and I found me afraid and senseless on that bench. The bristly beard just bathed by the tears. One strange nervous anxious the bowel mixed me, from the throat up to the bowels.

I extracted from the pocket the pouch of cocaine that had made me company for the whole evening. I looked at of it the content in controluce. Us n'era still as much to spice all the isolated. I closed the eyes and I breathed deeply the air of the night, so strongly to make the head almost turn me.

I opened the pouch and I sank there the nose inside. Inhaling with avarice that dust white; I felt the crystals whip me the mucous nasal. I threw back quickly the head feeling the blood that started to go down in throat. I sank in the pouch for the second time, voraciously inhaling even more. The sight became cloudy me and the heart beat in the thoracic cage. As going out too much of a long apnea, I raised the nose from the pouch and I taken air.

I launched the pouch to my shoulders, the dust remained it fell in air. It snowed.

I began to race. I quickly put more and more a leg in front of the other, staggering to the right and to the left. I felt the icy air break himself/herself/themselves in face, strenuously breathing to open mouth. I almost raced more and more fast to want to allow me behind the shoulders that present that instantly it became past. The suit clinged me I set and the jacket of Dior got up behind: it seemed a mantle, I was Batman. It almost seemed me to detach the flight. As soon as the road he consumed under my feet I lost sensibility, the spirit went out of the body as my poor man heart under pressure it seemed to go out of my breast. I felt a kind of alarm play again in the air. I made the first ramp of staircases jumping the stairs two twos. To the second ramp the visual field tightened him notably and the sight became cloudy me. To the third one the legs me cedettero of hit and I ruinously fell on steps; I had the heart in throat, the absent look. In mouth the metallic taste of blood. The alarm persistently played more and more. I rose again me standing, the head it turned vertiginosamente while I was inserting the key in the lock. I supported the forehead to the door, me in before. I appropriated the handle, the door it opened and I fell again, provoking a deaf and sick thud. I fell as Jesus on the street Crucis. The cheek me it almost instantly froze him on the cold parquet. The vibrations of the alarm kept on emitting him through all of my body. It played. It waved. I had the open eyes, I saw dark. And all extinguished him.

### Enrica

What cazzo is there of wrong in me? Is there something of wrong? I am not sure that interest me. And it is so ridiculous that I/you/he/she don't absolutely rub anything of it.

Am I schizophrenic? No.

Bipolar? No.

Am I crazy? Cazzo, probably yes.

Merda, hopes indeed that I/you/he/she am so, at least to give a sense to your normalcy. I don't want to say that is wrong, only that don't understand yours continuous to run after dreams to which you don't even believe you. Losing you in the job, in the money, in the worldliness, in your normalcy. You that you listen to the newscast to speak of future. The future.

But when you find the time to dream, and thing is building, exactly? Not to the job, but do you know, for yourselves? I am volatile and crazy but I will try to do him/it, out of here, to the open one.

You won't like it, but this world is veering to the grey one. And if we will go on so your faces will be immovable more and more. As the sky as soon as before a summer storm tears the black clouds of it above of you. This world is overdone and not as soon as it will be able it will treat you as any animals and it will also find the time of autodistruggersi. Completing so the cycle of the nature where nothing is created and nothing destroys him. From the modern age we will return wild and you won't know anymore who will be.

Merda, doesn't know anything of the future and I will never want to know him/it.

I release everything. I don't know if it is the correct thing to do, but I release everything. As all the women that I have had have released me. Although I/you had always warned her that I didn't come from here, from this place, from this world. All those girls have never had ears to listen to me.

This whole life is a transition. A transition without end.

Eternal. External. Physics. Sexual.

And you have not understood him yet. You that you laugh at my tears, that you take around my words. You, crazy people. You that you decay in front of the television a colored box that dominates your lives, that it imposes you fashions and songs, histories and people, myths and models. What it makes you less human than those that are not already. But only numbers.

In the Nazi lagers they tattooed a number on the Hebrews, you in the same way have tattooed on the forehead a telephone number. You that your loneliness measured in base to the mails that you receive, to the smses that make to ring your smart-phones, to how much your index book is fat.

And we will die all in this modern technological holocaust.

Inexperienced persons. Drug addicts of technology. Don't have understood yet that this is a whole transition. Without end.

Transition. Cazzo. transition.

But I don't want to fold up me and if I am escaping to something I am sure that sooner or later from some part I will arrive. And for every street meter that I will do I will pick up a pebble that, if it will call hope or destiny, few will care.

And I will stop around her of cazzeggiare. For what can count, I want to try to love. It will pass sooner or later. I will understand.

But now allowed to go me. It is worth of it.

For every single fottuto moment.

Arkham had written him/it on the blog and Enrica some hour before he/she read him/it with absolute devotion. You/he/she had discovered him/it a few weeks before, wasting time on internet. It was sad, deep, melancholy, sexy and incredibly interesting. It was a man, the most mysterious that the pits ever happened to know. Enrica didn't succeed in understanding for yet what motive cannot wait to get up to the morning to check if that site had been up-to-date. The white letters jumped in the background black, as the images of a film make him space in the dark of a cinema room and that heading in red it detached bright as the insignias of Time Square in Manhattan: ARKHAM.

Some photos, to the appearance without any sense, they gave a real aspect to that man and his/her virtual diary; they were the tests that also he was living on this same planet. Its words traced the life of Enrica, they filled the empty spaces of it and, it seemed unbelievable, they gave a sense to that useless days. It was the nth platonic love the new wrong person. But Enrica was made so, he/she succeeded well her to complicate him the life.

He/she knew very well it, Mark would not have called anymore her back.

It held the narrow jail cell in hand and it nervously looked at the display in the hope that illuminated him. It was beforehand in the summer that its name didn't appear on the that displays. Mark had left her and her peace was not given yet.

It secretly hoped still that one day would have acknowledged that terrible error, that would have called her back: she would have forgiven him/it and you/they would have returned together. Fought between the dream and the reality, it lost day after day every point of reference of his/her own life. Despite the bright votes to the faculty of jurisprudence, you/he/she had stopped even going to lesson. Mark had him completely out.

«I cannot continue, I don't know if I love you. I don't know if I have ever done him» you/he/she had told her with the coldness typical of his/her character. You had not even succeeded in crying. You/he/she had perhaps done him/it in too occasions before him and so that time had done alone it with the face pressed among the pillows in his/her room.

You/he/she had cried, cursed, accursed and vomited. Now Enrica breathed new air air of change. But the thoughts entered her head and you/he/she could not fall to pieces of it. Mark, according to her, you/he/she had saved her so much life how much you/he/she had removed from him some. You made account that was growing, had acquired new amazing points of view on the things.

«You will see, it will pass. It takes only some time» it felt him continually say. But the time didn't pass, the days were long and boring. However, indeed, every day that passed, the seconds devoted to him decreased and its heart seemed to be able him to loosen to the heat of a new life.

Mark had disappeared and, you/he/she was certain of it, you/he/she was surely happy to as you/he/she was not him/it her. You/he/she had eliminated all of this that he/she remembered him/it to him. Photo, tickets of the cinema, gifts of birthday, moments, the words in their songs. Mark was the drug most powerful that had had never way of knowing. You/he/she had misused assuming up to the limit of the overdose of it of it. And now that that drug was dramatically ended it was in panic.

The teen-ager that falsely lived still drowsy inside her ordered her to still be fallen in love of that idea of love that up to that sad day of June you/he/she had lived, in an epic battle between heart and mind, between love and reason. It needed his/her half to be happy and that half was missed making to fall her/it in an abyss of anguish.

In the happiest days, Enrica was fierce of his not to be anything, that killed her/it at the same time. He/she knew that something would be changed forever, if only she had begun to do something.

That Saturday evening, Enrica studied his/her image in the mirror before going out with his/her friends. You systematized the long blonde hair, I just moved, it stretched a thread of makeup and him to him it looked at right-hand in the eyes. The blue was made sad, extinguishing himself/herself/itself, but being marvelous however. As the color of the sea in one pluvius day. The blue that becomes grey and, next to the horizon, the blue one of the darkest tonalities. The only jewels that you/he/she had had you/he/she had ever set them in the orbits of his/her face.

Enrica, despite Mark, it was a strong and complicated girl. He/she wanted to give the maximum one, always. But aware of his/her character and of his/her romantic timidity, it was afraid to remain alone. The fear had entered its life after the end of their history.

«We go to the Blues tonight. I give to take you among a hour» you/he/she had written her one of his/her friends for sms.

«No thanks, I am in the house of it. I am not well.»

It always did so Enrica, prepared him to go out, it did him beautiful and then it declined the invitations. Mark was often to the Blues and didn't suit her to see him/it. It avoided all the places in which you/he/she would have been able to find him/it. As in that song of Baptists.

It tries to avoid all the places that I frequent and that you also know you, the demand is born to escape him not to hurt more him.

He/she knew that fear would have come her, that would be frightened. Almost as if the death of that love had made of Mark a ghost. Unreal.

To see his/her face, perfect and fascinating, as one any among all the others. Now that he was not his/her love but a boy anymore among the so many, even already together with qualcun'altra. Enrica preferred to lose himself/herself/themselves among the boundaries of house. Among his/her things, his/her dreams and his/her projects.

He/she wanted to change, he/she wanted to grow and to fall in love again himself/herself/themselves leaving that whole annoying past to the shoulders.

Despite his/her strong wish, it spent the life waiting. As all of however. A signal, one day, a message, a phone call. The days lost him among to sail online, a reality, a film in dvd, a sleep in the heart of the afternoon. Sleepless, shaken and frightened by what was not happening her.

In days as those, the monthly one that his/her father passed her you/he/she advanced her abundantly and so he succeeded in putting aside a consistent sum of money. Enrica also snobbed his/her parents in that period. Their intrusive questions bothered her/it to the point to hide even more himself/herself/themselves.

He/she knew that its behaviors were not neither correct neither justifiable. But at that time it was the maximum one that could offer. Not even so much to be well, whether to be less badly the possible.

«From how much you don't go out with a boy, Enrica?» the churches Chiara.

«I don't know him/it, it doesn't interest me now. I am well so, if I have to move me for someone I want to do him/it because the punishment is worth it. indeed»

«You won't be thinking about Mark yet?»

«If I didn't have so nice friends to remember him/it to me every time that we go out. No, The ams trying not to think of us.»

At times Enrica felt a sort of envy in the words of the friends. You/he/she had thought pits because its history with Mark had been very more of a simple adventure as theirs. Mark was often criticized, snobbed and taken around in their moments of female confidence. At the end of their reflections you/they had sentenced that to that age a deep relationship with a boy was fundamentally a big loss of time, reaching the conclusion that, for the time being," quantity was better than quality." And for this they didn't persuade him any momentary sentimental stasis of Enrica. Possession the boy, that you/they loved calling fiancé, attributing a sort of real physical bond to that word, you/he/she had become by now one status-symbol.

They allowed to slip the discourse that time, because that matter was the only one to make to stagger the solid friendship between them.

«You/they have told me that you don't go to lesson anymore to the university, it is true?» Chiara questioned again her.

Enrica he was feeling under pressure, the friends warned his/her change. They felt him/it but they didn't understand him/it and accordingly they didn't know whether to face him/it.

«No, in reality I am taking me some time, I am working to of the projects. Nothing of main point, still.»

Enrica didn't want to decay in that place for the rest of his/her life. In the long afternoons during which it was stretched in bed, before falling asleep it day-dreamed on his/her future. By now it was saturated of that places, of that life. Even it was some frightened of it. He/she wanted to leave. However an anchor held her/it tied up to its life and hurt her. Often, to late night, when insomnia bothered its sleep, it skimmed through a book of the works of Paul Gauguin. You/he/she had been born to Paris and corpse to Hiva Oa, in that terrestrial heaven of the Islands Marquises. From the other head of the world. You cannot push so far yourself without having to return back. It envied in immoderate way the distance chilometrica that separated his/her birth from the death. Gauguin was for her the maximum expression of life, of escape. He/she also wanted her to die in thousands of kilometers of distance after having consumed until after all the sole of his/her shoes.

He/she wanted to learn to live. By now the script of his/her existence he was boringly repeating, the usual characters delayed any sensation. His was a mediocre comedy and when he/she thought of us, he/she cried.

Enrica like a foreigner in a distant country felt out totally him place, sat to that damned tavolino with his/her friends. You felt their words slip beside, I set, heavy and intrusive. His/her friends, the people in which you/he/she had put back his most intimate secret, he was loosening as snow to the sun, cooking himself/herself/itself in the warm one of the incomprehensions, of the incongruities. More they grew, more they detached him. Enrica had the lost look in the void and thought to Arkham. Who knows if at that time that mysterious man was writing something. It seemed it did him/it to free himself/herself/themselves. You was worried, you/he/she was feeling some feelings for someone that was ironically able not to also exist. It was only even a character, a mask, could be also a woman for what he/she knew. This way the thought turned him into Mark, returning to the reality, for the nth time; closed the eyes and it was said that you/he/she could not go on this way.

I remain to wait, as always. Waiting for something that is never able to make to happen.

And they are words, words, words. People made of letters characters of a banal life. As my mask that fallen you/he/she has left me open.

Panic, fear, anxiety, insomnia. Too much awake, always tired, often confused. Sad and melancholy in it attended her.

With the closed eyes, without a woman. Without the love.

In my gilded mansion, king of the nothing, Prime Minister of the nothing. Looking for the sun for the simple grisly taste to keep on living in the shade. Only the love. The love that doesn't exist.

I need time of space and of liberty.

Of time, space and liberty.

Only time, space and liberty.

And to lose again every affection, because it is that that worth.

For every night alone, for every soul in punishment. For a ghost as me, that it waits.

In attended.

He/she wrote so Arkham, while Enrica is sat to the table of the hypocrisy with his/her friends.

When it returned home it was concerned to the mirror. Tormented as Janis Joplin, tender as Audrey Hepburn, marvelous as an actress of theater, sad, he/she caressed his/her reflex. He/she read the words of Arkham he/she anchors, before getting out of himself/herself/themselves the jacket, and it gave birth to the unexpected tears of envy.

The attended one united them. Itch came her under the feet, to the bellows and it howled out of the window. You/he/she was slowly losing all in the way simplest possible: without doing nothing. Is it possible that the years, the prejudices, do the ways of think let the people get further? It was so that it understood not to have friends. He/she didn't know if that shake that got excited her in belly were a stimulus of happiness or a huge sadness. But it realized at that time that at times losing is better whether to find again.

Session of source to the screen of the computer observed the white words of Arkham and strabuzzava the eyes in the hope that went out more something of them that a simple meaning.

It shook his/her blonde hair and it turned the head toward to the wall where you/he/she had attached all the photos of his/her life. He/she embraced his/her sister, it brought the cake of birthday his/her mother, it howled to the gol of Italy to the world ones, it was ashamed on the beach of St. Vincent, it gave to kiss on the cheek to his/her nephew. Even if the puzzle of his/her life missed some wedges that you/he/she had preferred to remove, to detest and to forget.

It suffocated the weeping in throat before adjourning the site of Arkham and the sunset of ignited Tenerife her before. A small wording said only" Tenerife. sunset." Any photo of him, anybody date. Arkham existed but until then it seemed to be only an abstract identity, an alien that sent messages and with which was impossible to communicate. The curiosity of Enrica was stimulated of moment in moment, day by day, and it imagined Arkham carving him every day a different face. Some wanted to also make part her of those photos, so much that some you/he/she had stamped her and you/he/she had hung her to the back in beaten iron of the bed.

«Hi sister.»

«Hi, as are you?» Enrica responded to the jail cell.

«Well, always of run, you know him/it. And you as you are?»

«I am.»

The only true friend on which you/he/she could count was his/her sister Roberta. You/they had always been so near, both in the body and in the spirit. But from when Roberta had departed for Milan, Enrica felt his/her lack. Luckily the telephone filled the void that had left, even if never enough.

«Thing you have made this time?» he/she asked in tone of reproach Roberta.

«Doesn't happen anything. I don't succeed in making to happen nothing. And I am afraid.»

You/he/she had described what felt and it understood only after having said him/it that it was incredibly true.

«You will find your road, you will catch your train, it will also pass for you. You won't stay alone, we have million of possibility and million of chosen by to do. It is not true that doesn't happen anything, already the nothing is something» Roberta responded. And while the words of his/her/their sister broke the loneliness, closed Enrica the eyes beheading a young tear. In the dark it felt the wind disarrange her hair, the perfume of Roberta to invade her nostrils mixing himself/herself/itself to the odor in the summer. The past in its head was of when they went to the beach in car, with the music to everything volume as to cover any superfluous element. And there was no nient'altro. Enrica and Roberta. They looked in the eyes and they laughed. At times so strongly to make himself/herself/themselves come badly to the belly. And the car kept on racing, the stereo to pump the lower part and in the obscurity of the closed eyes of Enrica nothing could be more disposition. As you/he/she had always been, waking up again the child without thoughts that it was and putting to sleep the young impatient girl that had become. «You sleep sister and not to cry. You sleep.» Roberta stole a kiss from the microphone of the jail cell in the hope that arrived of hidden to his/her sister. Meanwhile Enrica had changed the breath putting to sleep himself/herself/itself.

What really it frightens me it is the death. Not the mine but that of the people that are nearby me.

Because my more meaningful fear is that to remain only. Death is relative, it is the completion of a cycle. You/he/she cannot frighten me. It doesn't owe. But to be alive and that to be alone yes. It is a conscious vigil, a lock image of a film that interests yourself. It is a song jazz on the same note.

Death is a passage. Both that I/you/he/she am toward the aldilà both that I/you/he/she am toward the nothing. I make the tests, I open wide the eyes, I stop breathing and I do so that the belly doesn't stir.

In a last hiccup of life, bump and jump, allowing to slip away her.

I am dead for one minute and second trentasette.

The nothing, the nothing and attends him they don't have taste. Enrica admired on the screen of his/her computer the cover of The Freewheelin' that Arkham had just posted. "The idea of the love" you/he/she had written. It was the February of 1963, Bob Dylan and Suze Rotolo, his/her fiancée of the time, embraced, they walked along a street in New York covered by the snow. If you/he/she had not been love that, you/he/she had to have been a dream to open eyes.

«Eh, the love.» you/he/she had thought Enrica.

It looked again at the jail cell. Nothing. Smiled at the thought that its life was articulated by that cold technological device. If you/he/she was illuminated his/her day you/he/she would have been able to take unexpected folds. But the display didn't illuminate him. Never.

Then thing you do if you have few more than twenty years and suits in a country of province and it is half afternoon?

Nothing. Aspects. As you will probably do for the rest of the life.

Chiara rang the bell. Enrica opened it brings her/it to his/her best friend and the whole rest of the gang it smiled behind of her, you/he/she was not even treated of some gangs of the feminist mafia.

«Then, no histories there are tonight a party. You come and now we put you to place us» the expression of Chiara was deformed by a strange satanic smile.

The friends withdrew Enrica of house and they brought her/it first from the parrucchiera where hair tidied up her, they made her buy a black suit, unstuck, done with so little fabric that had to be for strength a stratagem against the crisis - it cost the salary of a middle worker instead -. The beautician operated first on the face with an ample cleaning, then you/he/she was the turn of a blow of elettrostimolatore to reinvigorate the abdominal ones an invigorating massage followed by a relaxant. Session of makeup, lips, eyes, cheekbones, eyebrows. Manicure. Pedicure.

At nine and half o'clock in the evening Enrica was in front of the enormous mirror that was found in the closet to wall in the room of Chiara. You bewared of the tall one to the lower part, as it is scrutinized a person that is seen for the first time. The heels of the new shoes lifted her/it of almost ten centimeters, the legs they were naked up to above the knee, where the new suit of mint began. Embarrassing. The neckline left the almost open breasts. The redefined lips detached on that doll face of porcelain completely redrawn by layers and layers of dusts and creams. Only the eyes remembered Enrica the only true thing that that evening had remained her.

You/he/she would be liked to escape but on that stilts you/he/she would not have arrived from any part and two sentinels in short skirt they perpetually stopped in front of the door of the room to avoid any type of escape.

If Enrica had been able to see over the walls you/he/she would have seen in the other room Chiara to traffic among the showcases of the living room, to the search of a pair of flutes, to uncork a bottle of champagne of his/her/their father and to fill that two glasses. You/he/she would have seen one of the other girls to loosen a white pill in one of the two glasses, making to emit hundreds of little bubbles that you/they bursted going up again upward. Instead Enrica succeeded in seeing only Chiara when he/she introduced him in room with two flutes in hand.

«You are beautifully, you know. I don't know why this restauration we have not done him before. You were becoming a latrine to be in the house to decay among your books. You hold, I think that I/you/he/she am the moment to toast to your immense beauty.»

«Mah, if you tell him/it you, I feel me a zoccola. Ah yes, I am decidedly figa, there is no denying it, but they are not my suits» it said Enrica throwing the suit, hoping that magically you/he/she could lengthen up to the ankles.

«But not to say stronzate, throws down the whole champagne, that in ten minutes he departs.»

«But can you/he/she be known where we go?»

«Even died not, it is a surprise.»

«From the cazzos, where do we go?»

Chiara closed the zipper lightning imaginary that had on the mouth and you/he/she went out of the room.

«' fanculo.» it whispered Enrica before ending in to long sip the whole champagne.

It felt the jail cell ring on the bed: a message.

"Everything well little sister? How is it going?" Roberta wrote her.

He/she didn't succeed in answering her, two sentinels in short skirt removed the jail cell from her hands, they picked her/it up and they loaded in auto. To Enrica it turned the head.

Tightened in the back seat of the Mercedes of Chiara it felt the stomach disgust himself/herself/themselves to every curve.

«I don't believe to be very well, do you know?» it told Enrica his/her friends drying himself/herself/itself small drops of icy sweat on the forehead.

«Calm, it is not anything. You/he/she is climbing.»

«How?»

Enrica had not understood, it had only the impression looking out of the car window, that that road to the dark in the mean of the country had already crossed her about ten and about ten times.

It didn't even have the time to understand that you/he/she had arrived, that he found again with the whole group in front of the door of that immense villa. Enrica understood.

«Bastard.» it went out of his/her mouth.

Mark opened the door.

«Welcome girls.»

Enrica the heart felt him go out of the breast. It began to beat so strong that he/she thought even about losing all and five the senses for some second.

Mark made her arrange, giving them the welcome one on the door and placing the hand on the naked back of each of them. Enrica was the last.

«Hi Enrica, is very beautiful.»

You looked straight at it in the big dilated pupils. It was there before. It hoped that if one day was ever made to feel, you/he/she would have been in the way most painless possible. Now it made an evil dog. He/she didn't succeed in calming the pulsation of his/her heart and you have to clear up himself/herself/themselves the voice before making to go out a weak «Hi.»

The house was already invaded by the smoke of cigarettes and reeds. The people lost him in the middle of that fog they were almost ghosts. Enrica spaesata felt more and more him and also some afraid, Chiara was nearby her and kept on putting her some glasses in hand, making sure himself/herself/itself that you/he/she immediately ended them all. The other ones were already lost, joining himself/herself/itself each with one of the boys who you/they were already found in the living room. The music tecno-house shot to everything volume the walls and Enrica seemed to move it had to fight against its fits of dizziness, in equilibrium on the stilts while alcohol was having its effects.

Chiara and You were on the couch of the living room, the clock in front of them seemed velocizzato. The hours passed. It was already very over midnight. The smoke was spaced out, the people were decreased but you/they had left the confusion there. They were still all in the house, hidden each in his/her own lustful sins.

Chiara waited for the correct moment.

Enrica fought the ghosts that hysterical they raced in his/her mind, wagging himself/herself/itself among the nervousness and the emotion caused by Mark, his/her physical discomfort and the total absence of fun. It felt and he/she knew that some extraneous substance that flowed in the arteries was distorting its perceptions: that time the girls had played indeed her an ugly joke.

Chiara got up of release from the couch and drew near to Mark that was trafficking with some superalcolicis in the cafe of the living room. It told him something the ear that Enrica didn't succeed in feeling and marked with the index the clock that didn't have to the wrist. It returned toward the couch where Enrica the head was tiredly supporting himself/herself/itself with a hand.

«You come Enrica, you come an instant with me.»

«Thing you have to go there to do of?»

«From the, that cazzo, comes. The have to take burdens things in the purse. Move you.»

It threw her for the hand, Enrica you have to settle in a second on the heels and you/he/she was dragged away.

You looked for something in the purse, Enrica of side waited with the braccias conserte. The light that came from the living room was eclipsed by a silhouette that it made to fall the room in the faint light.

«Mark, does thing do us here?» Chiara exclaimed badly reciting a pretense surprise.

«So, I passed of here I would like to make two chatters with Enrica, if you are not sorry» it said making the occhiolino to Chiara, that quickly went out of the room.

«It is better if I leave you alone, then.»

Enrica felt neither the strength nor the like fighting against that situation. He/she knew well that nothing would have prevented her from running into his/her destiny, he/she was firm in the same position to cross braccia fixing at random a point on the floor. Enrica felt more and more him senseless, confused in the thoughts and to uneasiness in his/her own body.

Mark took a seat on the bed and tapped with the hand the place of side to him:

«It suits you to put here you of side to me, do we speak some?»

Enrica drew near suspicious and sat him to some centimeter of distance from him.

«Because you are so distant?»

«Because I am here now well.»

Enrica spoke badly, the language was rolled up in her mouth giving a strange sound to every consonant.

«You are a stupid Mark. And they are stupid all those my friends that have made me come until here. And do I imagine that you agreed with them, true?»

«Yes, Chiara has called me a couple of days ago. You/he/she has told me that in the last times you/he/she has seen you strange, that go out never of house. You/he/she has said that I could be me the cause of your problems. What perhaps you are still fallen in love of me.»

«It is not true. Merda, is not true, but that cazzo you say? Of it doesn't rub a cazzo of nothing anymore. I want to go away of here. This is an useless conversation.»

«Bushels calm, Enrica. We are speaking only.»

The head turned so strongly by now her that he/she hardly succeeded in holding the open eyelids. Mark supported a hand on her knee and did her/it climb passing over the edge of the skirt.

Enrica didn't have the strength to react but it timidly panted to like.

«Mark.» it whispered him.

It didn't do in time to end the sentence that its hand was already over its panties. The pleasure confused the perception of the reality. It seemed her that the suit the it unthread him of back, that the language of Mark bossily entered its mouth and then it went down along everything of its body. They passed then moments of dark, to like, of mixed anger to sadness. You/he/she would have been able to stop him/it. But it didn't do him/it.

The light returned, alternating himself/herself/itself to the moments of obscurity, correct to show that face that anymore you/he/she would have liked to see.

The pleasures of the body, the perception altered of the mind, the thoughts, the fears, the correct thing and that wrong, him inside her. Anchor, now and anymore.

Enrica waked up again later him in his/her bed quite a lot times, to his/her house. A big grey overall wound its body. It got up of release, sat on the bed. More than second winds they didn't give before remembering that that had happened some hour before. You covered the eyes with the hands. A pulsating pain wound her head. Some second and him taken the whole face among the hands. Hating herself and the whole world. Everything would have been able to be avoided, it had the power of it, but you/he/she had left that it happened. This way you/he/she could hate Mark, you/he/she could hate his/her friends. You/he/she could hate that place. You/he/she could run away and you/he/she could do him/it now. Finally removing himself/herself/itself of back all the motives to stay.

He/she filled the bathtub of hot water and sea salts that you/they started to sizzle on the fund. You dipped up to the point of the nose. Leaving only the nostrils to the dry land to breathe. It felt in the water the noises amplified of the traffic and of the other condominiums. It always served him/it as child. Closed the eyes and it was tasted that deaf symphony before taking back contact with his/her reality and with his/her decisions.

The correct moment the he introduced, not even to say him/it, a few days later. Arkham had written less above his/her blog and Enrica you/he/she was worried, it feared that you/he/she could have stopped. In effects it was really this way, it stopped writing and it replaced the words with some images. Some his/her, some gimmicks on internet. All had a common denominator: Paris.

Enrica followed her, it counted her, it saved her and it looked for a logical thread that could tie together her.

Jim's Morrison grave.

The Tour Eiffel.

A postcard of the Hotel de nine hundred Villas of the first ones.

The Monna Lisa.

A Parisian café.

Montmartre.

An airplane to the take-off.

A suitcase of skin.

A hotel.

The photo of a hotel from the insignia scassata.

Enrica tightened the eyes as if in that photo there was very more to be put to fire. That particular. That name. Was game of the destiny wanted or simply an immense stroke of luck?

It saved the photo, taken of run a biro from the cup that it held above the desk and on a post-it the name it was marked.

With the fixed look on that image, Enrica understood that that was the moment, that that was the signal. What, if it had to be destiny, you/he/she would have been him/it without any impediment.

What among all the wrong things that the pits ever happened to do in his/her life, that was the most correct.

The page of Arkham was almost adjourned for magic, instantly.

This is the last time. This is the last duel.

I will reach the last thought, to the last line, to the last word and then more nothing.

Only the dark.

It is useless to fight against the mills to wind that this world offers us or to which condemns us. It is useless to keep on digging more and more to fund in his/her own existence hoping to go out on the other side. The other part is the usual part. Because life is a snake that the tail him.

It is useless to recover for then crazy divenir. It is not my guilt, it is not your guilt if the world is a crab that is devoured.

It is useless to keep on riding in saddle to my hack hoping and keeping on dreaming.

To dream for thing, for the one that?

For a world where the people are forced to wake up him.

Since child they tell you him": have to wake up You!"

And it is not a suggestion but a rule an order. And so they remove from you the possibility to dream. And I have gotten tired to dream and I/you/they have remained disappointed by the reality.

I have given few, I have had so much. I have appropriated of your desires, I have made us sex and you have given birth to a new desire. In this immense conflict of interest that me same I gave me.

In this epoch where you are my love and mine greatest enemy.

It is useless to look for the love when the love you don't have him/it more inside of you. Because the ghosts of the past have brought away it dipping you in the fear.

It is useless to keep on racing when the finishing line has already passed, already defeated. The nth duel against him same.

I have lost my job in the world.

This way, despite the sun, the summer, the perfume of the grass, the daisy wheel, the sex, the swash of the waves, a point of sugar, the chocolate, your lips, your breath before putting to sleep you, the cold of the pillow, a phone call in the heart of the night, the coffee's taste, his/her grandmother's photo, the light of Sunday, the sound of the bells, the fragrance of the bread, the eleven and twenty-five, the lemons, the piano, your hands, the red wine, the scarlet rose, the blue of the sea in Tuscany, a fish, Christmas, Easter, the first day in spring, you.

I hang my life from rider to the nail. I will remove from me the gilded armor, I will insert the sword in his/her sheath, I will put to rest my hack. I will slip me the most comfortable shoes that I have, abandoning forever this destiny of bankrupt hero and I will walk up to that, pursuing the sun, it is ever able not tramontare. So that one day I will touch with a finger his/her heat and I will enter his/her flames, burning the rider that I was, that I/you/they am and that anymore I will be.

The war is ended.

It burns, it burns Don Chisciotte.

The strong hidalgo lies here

what the strongest it overcame

and what also in the death

its life triumphed.

It was in the world, to every line,

I frighten him/it and the fear;

it was for him the big fortune

wise morir and crazy viver.

Enrica read him/it everything of a breath, the mouth covering himself/herself/itself with the hands as if something unpronounceable could suddenly go out ruining the liturgical silence of that epitaph of it.

Then a photo, him. That was his/her moment. Here it is. In the best of his/her days, with the best smile that had on the lips.

Enrica started on the chair, it was excited in a hit of cough, strangled of the surprise and it didn't even draw near to the screen he/she wanted to pick him/it up. It devoured him/it with the eyes to be engraved himself/herself/themselves in the retinas how much more details before it disappeared. Then more nothing. Leaving space to the black.

Arkham or whatever pits its name, existed indeed.

Something was happening and he/she wanted that that" something" it also happened to her.

In the same way according to which that goodbye appeared on the monitor, in a second, it disappeared. As if those words were an error. As if everything had been for mistake.

Enrica already had the suitcase among the hands, already a reserved place on the last train of the evening.

Less than nothing could not happen. In the worse one of the hypotheses you/he/she would have been all life.

### It burns life, it burns

You/he/she had been the insistence of Cristina to save me the life.

You/he/she had tried to call me about fifty times while cocaine was taking possession of my body. This way you/he/she had decided to come to my house and you/he/she had found me at the end of the last ramp of staircases, extended on the threshold of the door of my loft, supine, with the foam to the mouth. It told me to have howled while my jail cell waved and still played to its phone calls. It told me to have called the centodiciotto and not to even have succeeded in touching me, while it was waiting for the paramedics. Told me to have assisted while they were practising me the cardiac massage and to have me loaded in stretcher while they were howling: «The heart has restarted to beat! Let's bring him/it street!»

It told me to never have stopped sobbing, when you/he/she had removed the keys from the lock of the door and then you/he/she had closed her while the siren of the ambulance crossed the avenue, getting further himself/herself/itself and disappearing in the city.

I awakened me, I believe, later around forty-eight times, with a coos that it went out me of the left arm. Alone, in a white room, where from the window a tree moved solitary the leafy branches in the wind. I remember to be me frightened when I had felt, with the ears still, the nurse to say: «Good morning, finally wakes up there.»

Giovanni, Cristina and the Boss came to do it visits me. I remember to have measured my answers on the simple ones" thanks, there is not badly well, we hope, I am tired, I am sleepy, I am hungry." I remember to have remained in silence, lost, also when Cristina had made me go out, sat on the wheelchair and you/he/she had loaded me in car up to the clinic of disintoxication.

I remind me the doctors to say that my heart was stopped for almost ten minutes, that feared damages to the brain because of the oxygenation, that was in my blood so so much cocaine that rarely a person" normal" you/he/she would have survived. I remember well me and it still booms me in head when they said that I had been a lot, very fortunate.

I remained almost two months to Villa Bianca Luna, the clinic of disintoxication. I divided the room with Henry, a young boy that spent the days to vomit and to come him in the underpantses. In the breaks among these two activities of his he/she succeeded in telling to have inherited me a conspicuous sum of money from his/her father, famous shipowner of You Spezia dispersed during an oceanic crossing, and to be given him to the heroin because" it found her/it an activity of interesting relaxation", his/her words. You/he/she was thrown by the window of his/her apartment to the third floor of a luxurious building of the center in style liberty an evening that had ended the doses and his/her girl you/he/she had left him/it ending of belly on the roof of a Sweater parked under house. That dive had given him the breakup of five ribs, a femur, tibia, fibula, dislocated a shoulder and disarranged the way of speaking. It had been being for six months there and you/he/she would have had to do at least the same of it. It was so nice, it passed me some photos porno a lot of stimulants and it did me the favor to close him ten minutes in bath so that I could comfortably masturbate on the bed.

«And was it ferché fei here?» he/she asked me one day that is sat on a bench in the park of the clinic.

«I have sunk the nose in five grams cocaine and I have thrown.»

«Ferché?»

«Ehchilosà.»

«Forcafroia» Henry cursed with the eyes toward the sky after having suddenly come in the underpantses.

I remember me my endless walks along the corridors in the ugly pluvius days. I remember me the long sleepless nights to cry. I remember me the therapies of group sat in circle, when we passed us the ball and each it had to say his/her name. I remember Berto, the most elderly of the group, with his/her rambling speeches swearwords mixtures in front of the mirror.

«The merda in the latrine changes color and him he/she knows him/it!»

I remember me my pantalonis of the overall and not to be me them ever removed up to when, because of the cramps to the stomach owed to the abstinence, one afternoon I dirtied the bed of diarrhea. I remember me the chemical taste of the cafeteria of the clinic and of when Michael, the nurse, a BigMac brought me. I also remember that night when a friend of Henry succeeded in making to enter from a hole the net of enclosure a Rumanian puttana and to bring him her thin in room. I remember me her to pant while it was being above of him and then to offer me a pumps. I remember me her that the condom inserted me, that began to suck and me that after a quarter of I now told her: «If I/you/they have not already come in the first five minutes he/she knows me that I won't come anymore.»

I remember the individual meetings with the grizzled psychoanalyst and of my silences to his/her questions.

«Thing thinks here about doing once gone out of?»

«What relationship you had with your father?»

«You cared for your mother?»

«Thing gives you joy?»

«You have ever been in love?»

I remember to have answered him, once to that question: «I am an old homosexual whoremonger to which it likes to make him put him/it in the culo and to smell the own scoregges.»

I remember me that he never looked me in the eyes but intent at to write on a white sheet he/she nodded, completely disinterested, lost in his/her thoughts.

«Well, well. Very well» it said raising himself/herself/itself the glasses that went down him on the point of the nose.

I also remember me Henry to steal from the room of musicoterapia a guitar and to play Hallelujah of Leonard Cohen in the room completely desert cafeteria, in the heart of the night. I remind me that it perfectly tuned up that song with a thread of voice, sat to the clear one of the light of a refrigerator, with the long hair that the eyes covered him. So intensely, so simply, as if that pits the only thing that he/she knew how to do. I also remember me that day when Henry suddenly got up from the bench on which we always sat, it started racing toward the automatic gate that he was closing, him fiondò in the street and you/he/she was crushed by a tir.

I remind me that his/her bed that night remained fact.

I remember me that day when Cristina and Giovanni came me to take, they loaded my purse in car and they made me sit on the back seat. You/they had put on together, they were kissed on the lips. They opened me the door of the loft and me I remained some firm instant on the eyelash of the door, the proper parquet in that point it seemed marked.

«These are yours» it said Cristina lengthening me the keys. «You want that we remain, tonight?»

«No, thanks, indeed. I am well.»

Cristina gave me a kiss on the cheek, Giovanni a pacca on the shoulders. A bottle of Red of Montepulciano gave me.

«You hold, this is for you, he/she is never known that desire comes you to call a woman. Then thing you offer her to drink?» and it made me a smile accomplice.

«Then all to place, eh? We go, if you have need our number you have him.»

«Thanks Cristina, thanks indeed. You don't worry you, I am well.»

You stamped me another kiss on the cheek, leaving me a light sign of lipstick, Giovanni it was already on the door that was toying with the keys of the auto. I accompanied them and I greeted them while the staircases went down.

There was silence in the house, the closed curtains veiled of orange tree the whole air that surrounded me. It was clean, not even a thread of dust. I knew him/it, Cristina was dealt with everything. My bed still done perfumed of softener. Me there extended above. I Stop immovable I fixed the clouds to flow in the skylight above of me. Slowly I fell asleep me to my house.

I passed the rest of the week on the couch: I spent the time making a frantic zapping among the hundred channels of the satellite, without never interesting me in nothing. I slept when I was sleepy, I ate when I was hungry and I never went out. Every two days Cristina and Giovanni brought me the expense, some dvds, a cd, a bunch of flowers, a bottle of wine, a stick of cigarettes. Their visits, after sometime, they were made more and more roadsteads justly replacing the care that you/they had for me with the care for their new relationship. They called me to the telephone, always repeating me the same questions, that always had the same answers.

«I am well.»

The jail cell, once stormed of calls and sms, it sadly appeared in that silent period. I looked at him/it, sometimes, in the hope that someone had looked for me and I had not felt. One day, unexpectedly it rang.

«Ready?»

«Hey champion, as do we go?»

«Hi Boss, everything well. I am well.»

«Well, well. You feel Francis, I have called you because I wanted to ask you a thing. Does it suit you to come to make a jump in agency domattina? This way, to speak some.»

«It is really necessary, Boss?»

«Yes, I believe of yes. Then they ask me a lot of questions on you, they want to know how you are and they feel like seeing you.»

The following morning is sat in the ample and modern office of the Boss, wound in my trench, with the long beard and the black glasses that covered the deep occhiaies. His/her secretary made me enter telling me that you/he/she would immediately have arrived, that was hocked still in an important meeting in the room reunions.

After few minutes it entered, making a big confusion and giving me a vigorous handshake.

«Finally Francis, as does it go?»

«I am well. I am well.»

«Eh caspita, is seen that you are well. Well I am happy,» fixing me with a smile to trentadue teeth for then to immediately return serious.

«You feel Francis, we have to speak. I am happy that you are better, we hoped him/it for everybody. But unfortunately my role of businessman is had to separate from that of human being. You are missed for so much time and before this ugly period your behavior you/he/she had already been noticed. You have given so much and we are all very thankful ones of it. But what has happened you has been an ugly scar for our agency unfortunately. Yes, you have understood well. You/he/she has also spoken of you on some daily» and it lengthened me a pair of articles that it secretly held closed in the drawer of the desk. «You/they have revealed our name. I have been afraid, we have also lost some client. It looks, I don't have secret for you, less five percent in the billing of the last six months. It looks. You are for one hundred. The thing has influenced our image unfortunately. At the end, you also know him/it you, your name often turned in the jet-set, you were present to the parades, to the presentations of the new products, then all those your photos with the models, your advertising countries. Do you understand Francis?»

I remained in silence, passing me among the hands that two articles. One included who knows also one photo of mine of repertoire done to what party a few years visibly overdone before. "Advertising in overdose it risks the death" it brought the title.

«Francis, I believe that for the time being you cannot belong to this agency anymore. We already have a nominative that could replace rather you in brief times, in reality, if I have to be sincere, you/he/she is already doing him/it. You know well that cannot lose of the time and our image you/he/she cannot subsequently be ruined. I am sorry it, I am sorry so much indeed it. Even in expectancy, when waters will be him some do you calm, are we able riparlarne eh, that you say? We have already put your things in a scatolone, you can withdraw down it from Maria.»

I got up me, I swallowed a big gizzard of saliva that went to scratch the throat that was dried in the meantime. I shook his hand.

«Thanks» it was what I succeeded in saying.

I opened the door of my loft, it already appeared completely different from that day when Cristina and Giovanni had brought me home. I didn't succeed in putting in order, every object had autonomously appropriated of the house almost giving an aspect to that apartment of luxury from camp.

I divided my quite a lot leisure time between couch and bed. I had lost everything.

The defeat has a bitter taste. That moment was the key of my thoughts. What for how much limit there is not to the sky, the fall often and gladly it makes evil. For how much I/you had succeeded in hovering in the air, the portanza of my wings was suddenly missed, giving so life to a slow agony downward.

I remember well the silence that dominated in the house. It was the only feeling to make me company. Cristina and Giovanni lustfully consumed their love. Blessed them. I came to discover subsequently that my colleague had cheerfully supported the idea of the Boss to torpedo me. My head had offered him a special place: art director of the branch in London. But only if you/he/she had allowed to lose all the what is suitable to hold me inside. Giovanni had held the sewn mouth. Fottuto social climber.

Does her of cazzo you/he/she had also come to my house, you/he/she had knocked to the door and excuse had asked me through the spioncino. It had a bottle of wine in hand and Cristina as soon as behind of he exhorted him/it to insist to make himself/herself/themselves open.

«You are a social climber of the cazzo that has stabbed me to the shoulders!» I had howled him through the door.

«And you are a drugged stupid that he is fottuto that merda of brain! It is what deserves yourself, spoiled child of puttana!» he/she answered me.

From the spioncino I saw Cristina that tried to close his mouth with a hand and him that he wriggled. It launched the bottle of wine against the door breaking her/it in a million pieces.

«Pure Fottiti alone in your merda of house. Goodbye!» it was his/her regard.

I supported the back to the door while wine began to meet from under; I let me slip, entering of culo the red puddle.

«Excuse I, am sorry Francis that is ended this way. It tries to be well» it whispered Cristina to the door; evidently you/he/she was not gone out of the villa yet. They were words full of tears.

I and I remained in silence.

The following day I woke up myself and I went out. The raincoat covered my rubbed shirt and a heavy wool bonnet it hid my disarranged hair. To the supermarket the cashiers they looked badly me. In that case the suit, more than to make the monk, did of me the portrait of the devastation. They shelled the eyes when I made to flow on the ribbon of the box winds bottles of juice of orange, different pouches of pasta, a mountain of whatever type of frozen food, some boxes of water, juices in box, milk, twelve bottles of rum, three of gin, five of bourbon, ten bottles of wine and a packet of condoms for a total of three carts. I stayed me in hardware to buy some nails, a hammer, a chain, a meter, a torch and hundred candles. From the tobacconist three lighters and three sticks of Camel.

I returned home pushing the three carts of the supermarket while the people that crossed me looked me hiding malicious smiles.

I supported everything in the house and I gone down a last time in the wine cellar where I gave me two wood aces, that I assured with nails and hammer to the door of house, avoiding so any type of disagreeable visit.

I would have followed the sincere suggestion of Giovanni: I would be alone me fottuto in my loft of merda. If the world were able to love me, vaffanculo, the world can live without me.

I turned my way of living into to survive.

The camp did more and more day by day him dramatic. Heaps of refusals leavened in the angles of the house: I had forgotten completely the use of the pattumiera. I lived separated among two rooms, the living room and the bath. I slept and I decayed on the couch covering only me with a pair of jeans by now indecent. On the wood tavolino, the MacBook was always connected to internet: I looked for every now and then some porno site, on the tv I alternated any type of film and each it made me cry up to the marrow. I was often drunk, dirty, I extinguished the cigarettes in the glasses in which a drips of bourbon you/he/she had been remaining for the evening before. I had forgotten the light of the sun out of the closed blinds, getting used my eyes to the faint light of the candles. The beard was long on my face: it gave me a wise aspect and overdone. The skin, once set on fire in summer by the daily lamps suntan lotions, was assuming a color lattiginoso.

I was slowly decaying in my castle, so that my existence made more and more him every useless day.

One day I extinguished the tv.

Internet furnished me every type of ideas of which I/you had need and, still finding in the fund of my brain a crumb of wish, I also succeeded in giving outlet to my uneasiness.

I was feeding me of misanthropy and uselessness. Jumping from a porno site to the webcam of Central Park, I drowned in a sea of memoirs. I cried and I unconditionally laughed, moved by discharges of not-life that were emitted in my not-body. A ghost that a man, frightened almost anymore by mine similar that you/they slept in my mind.

Someone knocked to the door. Perhaps Cristina. Perhaps the mail carrier. Who knows him/it. Always too much or too much few drunk to understand who pits.

Endless times I passed attached to the MacBook pressing on that white keys giving to every instant that had marked my life a sense and an end. Internet is the substitute of a world that we would like to find hiding our tired and sick faces behind pleasant and nice masks. Reaching in the time of a click every angle hidden of the planet and also over the terrestrial atmosphere, after the moon and the solar system.

I created in this way a new life, a motive to go on. New stimuli and new ideas. I dreamt places in which I had never been, I entered hotel where I had slept, I saw people that were gone out of my life quite a lot years before again. I squeezed every memory of mine, I invented fictitious histories but real fottutamente on who held similar to me. Reinterpretando their last sense, their last breath, driving him/it through my body, doing him/it my. I lowered me in their cloths and I let me go. I was reborn in another world. Because the whole life is a passage. Simply from a way to the other, from a state of the being to that following.

A few months passed, I believe. Lost completely the knowledge of the time, before, in the heart of a cold night, I/you was illuminated. I had found the key of time. There was only a thing to do, the only one that really you/he/she had remained.

I gathered all of my things going to turn every drawer of house, everything in the three carts of the supermarket forgotten to plain earth anchor, since then. I left only in the house the narrow necessary to live. Few things. The whole rest I brought him/it to the park where the evening of mine almost death I had decided to thrust the nostrils inside the dust of Snowwhite.

I prepared the three full carts of my things to triangle, really in the middle of one of the so many grassy spiazzis. I gave a kick to the different lamp-posts that that area surrounded, making to fall her/it in the blackest dark.

I threw out a tank of gasoline from one of the carts and I began to pour her/it above to everybody and three. I extracted from the pocket of my impermeable believer a cigarette and the lighter of Batman that Chiara, the photographer, you/he/she had left on the bench before disappearing.

Entered the cigarette. The tobacco in point crackled while I was inhaling a deep mouthful, that I held in the bellows up to hurt me. I lifted the look to the sky: the stars appeared pale, out, darkened by the light of the full moon that gave a mysterious aura to the things, mysticism.

That was the night.

I threw upward out the smoke creating a small cloud that stirred toward the sky.

I launched the cigarette in one of the carts, that immediately takings fire also englobing the others two.

While a dense black smoke he was lifting from the fire of my things, I got further me sinking the hands in the pockets of the trench.

It burns life, it burns.

### Chamber 79, Tuesday

I succeeded in seeing the disconnected outline of the Sacred Coeur among the dirty white buildings in Paris. The taxi flowed coasting along shops of lower part jail cell price taken of ragazzine assault of color, mountains of suspended purses in the bazaars of the Indians. The ladies with the baguette under arm went out of the boulangerieses giving life to a suggestive metropolitan chaos. Visually it was so, one of the thousand faces in Paris. Between a patisserie and a shop of used books, Rue de Chevalier de the Bars it stretched out him in slope. The taxista returned me the suitcase and was pocketed the conspicuous tip that I left him. I was standing there, almost in photographic laying, while the taxi went up again the traffic among a pair of horns of protest. I remained still some second lock to my place, tasting with every sense my first Parisian touch. The visual picture that I had made up in head in the journey done in taxi was completed by the low perfume and multietnico of that district. Also closing the eyes, the perfumes and the odors they gave physical consistence to that moment.

«Pardon monsieur» a boy of color with some enormous bonnets to the ears, that you/he/she discarded me giving me a light spallata.

It woke up me from the enchantment. The hotel Montmartrois was there, a little anymore before on the right. I dragged my suitcase on the steps, over the ciottolato that did her/it jolt, in the door in beaten iron, climbing her steep staircases of the hotel. Everything in slope, as if also that place wanted to make to metaphorically understand me every difficulty that I was passing. Because it was not so discounted that to every slope it corresponded a descent.

The Indian to the reception welcomed me with a voiceless bonjour, you/he/she lengthened me the electronic key and the remote control and with the low look and totally regardless of me, you/he/she said: «Chambre settantanove, quatrième ètage.»

The corridors that brought to the room were vaguely of intestinal aspect: small and narrow, they lost him among the curves that the building forced to cross. To a first moment, the abrupt change of ambientazioni that my eyes were suffering it caused me a strong fit of dizziness. I took me some second and I reestablished the contact with the reality. The carpet under to the feet it gave a strange consistence to my footsteps.

I delayed in front of the room settantanove. That door didn't have anything to whether to see with the hundred hotel that I had had the opportunity of frequenting. Any ample corridor from the lights soffuse, any boy in uniform with my suitcases in hand, any suite, any swimming pool to the last floor with panoramic sight. This was the bad brother of the Ritz. The hotel that had entertained my about ten French travel allowances, the same of the princess Daylight. This was the Montmartrois, under the Sacred Coeur, to few hundred meters from Pigalle. If there had been never some luxury, this place if the era completely forgotten. But if I was running away from something, if the Arab phoenix that was me wanted to die and to revive, had to do departing him/it from the lower part. For riassaporare again every conquest and every profit, every small thing that in the life is be returned me before.

I shaken the head, I sketched a lukewarm smile being uncertain on the nature buonista of my thoughts.

I didn't do in time to open the door that the room was already ended. Few meters you square, perhaps as soon as two, maximum three, you/they would have become my habitat for the next days. The first thing that I looked as soon as I usually arrived in room it was the bath. It was as soon as more breadth of a telephone box. I climbed over the bed and I supported the suitcase really under the window. Out, the roofs of the city.

I was tired, heated up. Mine facing the mirror appeared white and sick, as soon as an indication of color to the cheeks remembered that in my face some blood circulated still.

I removed the lock from the eyes and I gone down down in the street noisily closing it brings her/it to my shoulders, feeling to go up again from the back a shake of panic.

Going up again Rue de Chevalier de the Bars, few hundred meters later it sprouted, I improvise the Sacred Coeur.

You hardly had Paris before turned the angle. The white church looked you at the shoulders while you were looking for with the look what you could recognize among that buildings. There had never been, despite my quite a lot visits in the city: I always had and carefully tried to avoid any type of tourist place. I went to Paris for job and to tow.

That sight, the tiredness that fell and it flowed along the legs and the cold air that hair disarranged they made me two fermoimmagines to come to mind that you/they represented people to which I would never be waited me to think at that time.

Julia.

He/she adored that city, he/she adored her/it over every limit. I had promised her that one day I would have brought her there. I was so in love of her, I was so young. You/he/she had suddenly disappeared from my life, without never causing neither too well neither too badly. Of her you/they had only come me some voices that gave her/it gotten married and with a child in another city. It was true love, the only love that gives really everything without never receiving nothing in change. It was platonic love. More than love was faith as that that a man can have for a goddess.

It is Giorgia.

You had been my history more important and more lasting. You/he/she had left me the day of my birthday after two years that we were together. I accused the hit, I grew thin different kilos and lost momentarily every hope of a happy life. With Giorgia you/he/she had been marvelous, brief but marvelous. But it is so, all the marvelously beautiful things last little.

Do you know something beautiful lasted an eternity?

A film, a book, a lightning, a storm, a rainbow, a trip, a sentence, a birthday, a look, a first kiss, a fellatio, the orgasm, a song, the goose bumps, a sneeze, the Beatleses. Every beautiful thing has in his/her own Dna the word" end."

Giorgia had put the word" end" to our relationship and it was completely disappeared. I never succeeded in hating her/it neither to have grudge in his/her comparisons. But I suffered of it terribly in the icy nights of end autumn, caressing in the dark his/her cold pillow. Crying seas of bitter tears. A great tenderness did only me when after so much time me ricontattò to know how I was. You were not well, he/she let him/it transpire among the words tronche of the smses. More he/she worked to his/her more life it went downhill. Continually giving the guilt to the others and without never becoming himself/herself/themselves account that would have had to make the accounts with herself. I would have liked to make at that time the love with her. I would have liked to give her a brief and marvelous moment. In our stories it was ideally Paris the romantic city. If I remember well, once he/she asked me, if never one day I/you had wanted to ask to marry me to her, to do him/it to Paris. You/he/she had shared with me every moment of that around trecentosettanta days that we were together: the scaling toward the success, the to swell himself/herself/themselves of my checking account, some compromising message of some model, our trips to the tropics, the Christmases, the trips out handed. The head had held up me while I was vomiting after the nth drunk and you/he/she had made me reenter from different ugly trip caused by expired acids. Giorgia had loved me, I don't know if it had indeed never me beloved but it tried for me a strong feeling. Me my part of lover I had recited her in very bad way. Sopperivo to my physical lacks riempiendola of gifts, continually caught her/it doing so to become the surprise a recurrent element. You preferred to divide our destinies, realizing himself/herself/itself that perhaps that bond was not never stat or strong as we imagined.

Julia, Giorgia and all Paris before.

The wind he was doing more and more insistent. I got up me the collar of the jacket and I started over walking. I gone down the stairways of Montmartre and I avoided with an impolite gesture of the hand the blacks that took advantage of him the first tourist split for attaching a bracelet and, only after having him/it to him narrow well to the wrist, to ask him ten European. I went me toward Pigalle. The showcases were adorned by about ten erotic toys, sexy suits, handcuffs and frustini sadomaso.

My loneliness was aimed at by uncombed old men, odoranti of kebab, with the bristly beard, that you/they invited me in their place shouting without minding half terms:

«Monsieur! Mister! Sex? Sweep! To sweep!»

I reached the Moulin Rouge, I crossed the road and I returned back. Every odor was mixed, the sonorous pollution was of the most variegated and I persistently wondered me thing it consumed him in that erotic teatrinis. I entered a sexy shop, where among hundreds of titles of porno film, rubber cazzi and vibrating ovetti, there were after all the boxes for the vision. With so much of chair and fazzolettini.

The world is an immense porno film and the life it is only the plot not to make only it a raw sweep.

The most greater part of the people on this earth, looks for today these three things,: money, power, sex. Not precisely in this order, without even giving to each the same importance. But few cares, one is direct cause of the other. The rest is subordinate to these three simple elements. The great ones of the earth the missiles are measured and they do to competition to insert him/it first in the territory of the other. They persistently measures the guns making competition to whom has him greater and to whom shoots more distant. Histories already felt. Multimillionaires display their cars of big capacity for sopperire to their scarce genital dimensions and the debatable amatory dowries. Also the housewife cannot wait to do a pumps to his/her/their husband and there is not anything that I/you/he/she give more power in to see to suffer him/it while, a second before comes, she stops him. Then he grows old, the sexual desire decreases and when the moment to throw the sums draws near, it is understood that it doesn't give any satisfaction to have the richest and most virile grave of the whole cemetery. This way everything extinguishes him, the immense bead of soap bursts and we remains only some carcasses of wandering, hairless and wrinkled organs, without being us aware to never have lived really.

I was one of them.

You was doing dark, the Place du Tertre, the piazzetta of the artists of Montmartre, he was slowly emptying. I entered to the Au Clairon des Chasseurs: a duo musical jazz was playing her Girl of Ipanema. I ordered a Croque Monsieur and a beer. They sat next to me a group of girls and with them a boy clearly homosexual. They noisily chatted, they were happy. Despite mine bad French I succeeded in understanding when a girl asked to his/her friend if you/they could exchange place. It looked me and once sat it made a pleased smile. I studied her the neckline. It had a piercing as soon as under to the underlip. It was nice.

I didn't know what my plans and the panic that I had warned first would have been in the hotel it was always in trap along the acantha. I didn't know if I was afraid or if I was avoiding only certain thoughts. Mr. Chisciotte had to be burnt. I would have liked to drink too much that evening, to faint in the middle of the piazzetta of the artists, to wake up again me and to find again me in the bed of my house.

But I didn't drink too much that evening, I ended to work my Croque Monsieur and I returned in the hotel.

It was a first troubled night, perhaps also thanks to the different coffees that I was drunk me the day before. I woke up myself quite a lot times looking for the skylight of my room, to the search of an any point of reference famigliare. Out it delayed to make day. The sheets as those of all the hotels of the world, slipped me under the body. I was cold.

### Café du Pont Neuf, Wednesday

I did me a hot shower, the cold it went down along my body and the warm water it reinvigorated me the muscles. Gone out of the heavy doors of the hotel I stayed me, I forked the sunglasses and I ignited me a cigarette. I took a long mouthful of it. In front of me, a blonde girl with pair of white Wayfarer and the bonnets to the ears was making to dangle down the legs from the muretto where is sat. I looked at her for some. It seemed to wait.

I taken my road. To Paris I have always had the impression that it missed the civic pedestrian respect. Each walked completely lost along the sidewalk. More than to a calm walk, you/he/she would have been better to compare him/it to a run to obstacles. Nobody took care of him of whom had before or of forehead, rather than before or behind. The hurry was like master. The continuous one to cut the road or to push gave me on the nerves. As to London the circulation was damnedly precise and discounted, there was not here anybody rule.

The subway was saturated to the time of point. I changed a pair of trains before going up again to the Quai du Louvre. I went on the Pont Neuf and I touched the cold marble of the baluster. I caressed him/it looking downward at the Seine flow calm. In front of me, the Ponts des Arts. A bridge completely of wood from the great green iron arcades. I sigh. It belonged to the plan. It was morning, the sun had been being blunt for a few times over Ile de the Cité, really behind the bell tower of Notre Dame. It of orange tree every building that was found him of forehead. Paris had a different light.

I stayed me to the Café du Pont Neuf. The traffic on the long Seine was intense, but everything to regulate. I ordered a coffee and a croissant to the waiter, that never arrived. What besides it is one of the words for me more difficulties to be pronounced. I don't know why, but if it doesn't go out well me the first time I can also be calm that don't recover her/it anymore.

«Monsieur! Monsieur! A café et a corossan, him the vous plait.»

«Pardon?»

«A café et a corosan.corossat.cossosan.»

Nothing, by now it was lost entirely.

«Pardon monsieur?» the waiter again excused him approaching himself/herself/itself to understand better.

«A café.et un.corrossant» I told him trying to articulate well every word.

«Ah, a croissant! Oui monsieur.»

A boy in front of me timidly smiled looking out of the immense glass door perceiving my thin dyslexia embarrassment.

I crossed then the road, I climbed the Pont des Arts and I leaned out me from the handrail. While under of me it passed a long white boat, behind a scolaresca it advanced in line for two making a big confusion. I moved me so that to be the more possible to the center of the bridge. That was the place. I don't know as would have happened or when. But would have happened. There you/he/she would have burnt Don Chisciotte, romantically. At that time the heart missed a hit and you/he/she would not have recovered anymore him.

This way, without time neither space but with only a plain polish in mind, I crossed all Rue de Rivulets up to Place de the In agreement one, crossing the Champses Elysée and arriving under the Arc de Triomphe. Crossing million of eyes hundreds of faces. All equal ones, all different ones. And for every person that I went beyond I succeeded in imagining me a life. Each of them had a detail that made him/it only and interesting. There are then people that don't have anything to whether to do with the life, that you/they hold her/it dam in their drawers in the hope that one day can serve him. I had known so many of it. In to look at all those people I wondered me where you/they had put her theirs. Nobody seemed to have problems or I handed questions. Dignifiedly finding every time a place in the world.

To Paris there are very beautiful women and they always look you in the eyes. They have the red lips, the free loose hair in the wind, the open legs, the tall heels, the lacquered fingernails, the cigarette in mouth, the jail cell to the ear. The women of Paris are marvelous and the most greater part of them pretends not to know him/it. Walking with pressing footstep, I hoped in a smile, in a look, in an instant of heat. Falling in love me of each of them for five seconds.

For every person that passed I wondered me in what position of a hypothetical staircase of importance would be set. Who has more, who has less. Who can allow to serve shopping as Louis Vitton, who has to be satisfied with a sandwich from McDonald's, who drinks of hurry the cappuccino just taken by Starbucks, who eats the baguette before returning to the job, who sleeps for earth because a job doesn't have him/it or you/he/she has never had him. Or who, as I, am lost and you/he/she have found the way of losing him to find himself/herself/themselves.

In front of the Montmartrois the blonde girl with the white glasses he was always eating an apple with the legs to dangling from the muretto. It looked me enter and when I climbed on top of the staircases and I turned me she there was not anymore.

### Cité, Thursday

It was in the messy chaos of the subway that I found me that young sat blonde girl few seats more distant. It had the eyes glued to a book. I tried to hide my looks among the people that separated us. And when its eyes an instant were detached for looking at the stop of the subway I followed its movements reflected in the car window.

I gone down to the Cité, really where in the piazzetta as soon as out of the meter spring essences are emitted coming from the market of the flowers. I turned back a couple of times me to see if the girl were behind of me. It was not there. Session had remained in front of its book losing himself/herself/itself in the tunnels below the city.

I stayed me really under Notre Dame where, striving the neck in to look upward, I saw that the bell tower seemed to never end. Every statue seemed to look me, to study me, even the demoniac drip edges had the eyes aimed at me. I thought that, if you/they had had the gift of the word, you/they would have been able to howl in the wind to all the people that didn't know him/it, that I now was there.

I had departed without notice, booking the first flight putting two rags in the suitcase. I had extinguished the jail cell, closed the door of my loft and left the past to the shoulders. I was afraid in all the instants that separated me from my old life.

### Frederic, Friday

It was the following morning, really while I was changing meter to the Competitions of the east, that the last ones among the crowd. Taken a different carriage from mine but of the same train. I thought that I would not have been able to study her/it while he/she was reading his/her book; I wanted to do him/it, as had already happened.

I didn't succeed in remaining in bed that morning, to the hotel on Fridays are day of arrivals and departures. The managers howled in Indian orders to the attendants that raced on and down along the steep staircases of the building. For this the meter was so full, it was really the Parisians' business hour. A petit I would have enjoyed dejeuner to the Café du Pont Neuf, by now become my preferred place to inaugurate the morning.

To every station a small group of employees tried to compress us in the carriages, among it shouts her and the nervousness, preventing any type of movement. The atmosphere he was heating, the temperature increased and lower case letters droplets of sweat he went forming on my forehead. The odor, after a pair of stations, it was already important.

To Les Halles I felt my body push himself/herself/themselves in before; I tried to rotate me on the pole to which I was anchored, then a puff of blonde hair me proper comparì behind the shoulders. It was her, the biondina with the white Wayfarer. Its body supported him to mine; I felt its forms slip on my coat. I tried to turn to the right the head and to the left, quickly, looking for a visual contact, in the hope that understood that I was me. But the doors were closed behind of her just gone down by the carriage. The train left again slow and I left her/it to me to the shoulders.

I entered to the Café du Pont Neuf: the place was empty, only the intense traffic on the long Seine entered by force the silence of the caffetteria. I took a seat me to the usual table, and in to look for the cigarettes in the pockets of my trench, I found me a ticket that I didn't remember to have. I turned him/it to me among the hands.

TOMORROW. SUNSET. PONT DES ARTS.

E.

Cazzo. It was her. It was the biondina. It had to have inserts me him in pocket on the meter, when you/he/she had approached me to go down. You knew that I was there. You/he/she had done him he/she waits for.

The heart began to beat me strong: if I paid attention I could almost see him/it paw under the shirt. I took a seat me, I looked at the ticket, I studied the handwriting of it, I reread a couple of times it. Then another pair. Then still two. It was not able whether to be her; going to look for in the meander hidden of my memory I didn't find nessun'altra explanation.

I realized only in that precise instant that I was living. What something was happening. What it seemed too effortless me to have a plan and to complete him/it. I had to improvise for the nth time.

The breakfast arrived to me in the meantime. The bigliettino was staid on the table, under the cigarettes. I held far it, as if you/he/she could contaminate me. I tried to ask me thing I would have done and as but inside of me I already knew to have decided. I could not risk to fall in some loving complication, neither of certain I would have presented to that sort of appointment. I was in Paris there and I had a purpose, I had a plan and I would have gone on. I taken the ticket, I rolled up him/it and I drowned him/it in the coffee that you/he/she had remained in my cup. This way, a thought in less with which to have to make the accounts. Anybody waste of illusions, ahead in my road.

«Garçon! Garçon, him the vous plait, y to-t-the one téléphone?» I said stopping a waiter that passed me to the shoulders.

«Oui, monsieur. You-bas.»

«Puis-je utiliser?»

«Oui, monsieur.»

The telephone was really behind the cafe, in a narrow angle drawn by the intersection of two walls. During the sleepless night that I had passed you/he/she had come me an idea: I wanted to unpack me. I wanted to see Frederic again, they were years that I didn't see him/it. With him I have seen things that normal people will never see in one hundred lives.

Frederic immediately responded me: among the confusion that wound his/her voice we succeeded in putting us of accord to see us at eight o'clock in that evening to the Café Les Deux Margots.

I wandered for Paris, doing before and back for the Champses Elysée to the search of something of very expensive and very useless that the desire of compulsive shopping would have satiated that lay still latent on the back seat of my brain. I didn't find anything to the height of my compulsionis but at seven and half o'clock precise is sat to the Café Les Deux Margots and I looked with mistrustful air the abbey of Saint Germain des Pres, the most ancient church in the city, that practically rose me of forehead.

God.

I had eleven years, his/her grandmother and I Pine cone knelt to the feet of the bed we recited Our Father before going to sleep. I tightened strong the fingers, weaving her one with the others, I closed the eyes and I repeated word for word the prayers that went out of the mouth of his/her/their grandmother producing a kind of echo joky.

Give us our daily bread today, you put again to us our debts as we put again them to us to our debtors and us not to induce in temptation but free us from the evil.

Growing, I had had my daily bread - a bread of luxury, could say -, I had not had debts neither so much less debtors but I had had a lot of temptations and nobody was ever worried about to free me from the evil. With to spend some years, God had passed by her/it" d" capital to that lower case letter, you/he/she had become, more than a divinity to which to believe, a character fantascientifico to which to give the guilt.

At that time I wondered me if God, one any in the kingdom of the skies, pits to knowledge of my plan, if you/he/she would ever have forgiven once me arrived of there or if I would have wandered for the eternity lost in an infernal forest.

«Hey, mon loves!»

«Frederic!»

It woke up me from the thoughts ultradivini; it was hidden behind a pair of expensive black glasses and it gave me a vigorous handshake. You/he/she was made to have been growing the beard for the last time that we were seen there. It was tall, thin, of those nervous skinniness and apparently deprived of muscles. The dug face, the wrinkles of expression on the forehead that you/they sprouted to every word as ripples on the sea. The nerves threw him the neck that sprouted from the white shirt. That deep furrows in face gave him many more years of those that it had in reality. The beard was naturally crinkle, hard, prickly also to the sight. You removed the glasses. The clear eyes, languid, they looked me lost over my mass at fire. A few years had passed.

«Mon loves, that plaisirs. Does thing bring yourself in the dear and old Paris?» Frederic mixed Italian and French in sublime way, making his/her poetic language and sopraffina. It beveled the erres, it rounded off the vowels, it disarranged the accents, putting every single word as astride a continuous Russian mountain.

«Nothing of main point, is taken me some day off from the job, the last times they have been really hard. The first flight that I have found available have taken. and eccomi here in Paris.»

«Oh, there east merveilleux. We have to organize something. You feel, it comes me to mind so, we drain then here there something later I know that there is a party in house of one friend of mine, there is good stuff.»

«Frederic, be sincere: there is good stuff or do you have good stuff?»

«Naughty boy! You are not not at all changed.»

We initialed our infernal pact with a smile accomplice. Took Frederic, throwing him/it for the apron, a waiter that was passing and it ordered the first one of the four gin-tonic that we would have consumed.

After a couple of hours we staggered long Boulevard de Saint Germain to the search of the house of a mysterious Antoine.

«Antoine, Antoine, où es-you?» it howled Frederic in the receiver of the jail cell.

We laughed as prey crazy person to hysterical crisis: the tablets that we had furtively swallowed were climbing.

Finally and unexpectedly we located a front door from which a big quantity of people entered and went out,: very beautiful models, young boys from the artificial hair. Aloft, on the ceiling that was glimpse by the windows, lights were projected by the thousand colors stroboscopici. The lower part of the dances music shot to all volume arrive thin in the street.

«Putain merde! The east ici! He/she lives here Antoine, from the that we salt.»

To every ramp of staircases the music did more and more him strong. People camped out anywhere for the whole building; the door was open. We owed it stuffed road among a group of models that you/they danced embarrassed to the hypnotic rhythm of some hits French. Antoine was embraced twos blonde and busty poles, he/she wore a negligee that a clone ache made him/it succeeded of Hugh Hefner.

Frederic saw him/it, the hand tightened him and they was given a confidential pacca on the shoulder, apostrophizing himself/herself/itself with some vulgar Parisian regard.

«You know the girls, Frederic?»

«No monsieur, doesn't know her.»

A diabolic sneer appeared on the face of Frederic, it mimed a sort of it counts with the finger index aimed toward the two conigliettes and it stopped him on that of right.

«To like to know her/it, mademoiselle.»

The takings the hand and it grazed her/it to him with the lips. Before drawing near to her it had out of the already half mouth language. It ended in that some coniglietta for some second, then he turned verse of me and it told me:

«Hey hand, if you want to serve you, you do as if I were at your home. That has remained of left.»

«I believe that I will give me to the alcohol.»

«You do as you believe mon you love, me house es on house.»

I looked at Antoine to look for the approval of the landlord.

«You go you go, I pray» it told me pointing out me the impromptu cafe in the other room.

I swallowed different glasses of alcohol; I wandered for the rooms of that house without destination. Frederic had disappeared, Antoine was busy to touch the fondoschiena of every girl that passed him before. I was lost and I was happy. I didn't think about anything, the drunk one was turning in body, the worries were drowsy, the feelings made my complete painless self-destruction. And so the time and the space deformed him, they became larger for then to suddenly become adherent to my body. Alice came to mind that you/he/she had followed the Bianconiglio for then to end risucchiata from a hole in the garden. Where was my hole? In which I was fallen inside?

It was as when he was children, it didn't rub me of nothing if not that it arrived tomorrow. Growth had been only a loss of time. I didn't want worries, pain, anxieties, attended.

«Mesdames et messieurs, ladies and gentlemen. the. poussiere magique!»

A boy went out howling from a room with in hand a silver tray on which you/they were spread out about ten strips of dust white. The same that had not brought me to the other world for a hair.

I don't know what it happened me, but in a second the sight was dazzled me and I was forced to close the eyes. Once reopened, reality reappeared deformed and it assumed the forms of Being For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite! before collassare in a world apart.

The boy with the tray was a clown that with the shoes of different longer measures you/he/she crushed the feet to whom found before. All around, the walls turned him into heavy curtains, glimmering, from circus.

Antoine reappeared from behind a couch elefantesco with a funny tuba on the head and, brandishing his/her baton, he/she invited all to participate in the show. Curling himself/herself/itself the moustaches and polishing himself/herself/itself the gaiters, it gave a pat to every spectator that entered.

«Is the show that difference does my friends! You come!»

On the floor, sawdust and sand they inserted the feet to the ground. Moving myself on the disconnected ground I looked aloft where trapeze artists and jugglers took around the normal laws of the physics.

Oh, Frederic. The magician. He/she wore an used tuxedo, full of rolls, colored. It made bows and somersaults, deadly jumps and it always reverted standing. To the center of the footstep the other artists had made him space. The public remained in silence and looked me, there of side to him. In the dark, we were illuminated only by an eye of ox.

«There east the magique, mon loves!»

You removed the heavy mantle that covered his shoulders, it shook him/it in front of itself as in the bullfights to attract the attention of the bull. It made an express movement and behind it a tavolino appeared. It supported us above the cylinder and it dusted him/it with a bright powder that extracted from the pockets.

«There east the magique, mon loves! It looks.»

It planted a hand in the hat and it extracted an unusual white rabbit of it with the sideburns to the Elvis Presley. The rabbit skipped about here and there, before staying himself/herself/themselves to few meters from us and you/he/she waddled singing some toward of Hound Dog.

Frederic recalled my attention shaking the hands in front of my eyes. Manipulating my imagination.

«Nothing is as it seems. There is no makeup, there is no deception. the fee concerns.»

You inserted the hands in pocket, the public kept silent; the powder magic descents as snow on the cylinder from which some puff of greenish smoke raised him.

Galleries give, the public admired in silence, with the eyes aimed fumante to the hat.

It went out a to be bright, a donnina from the green short suit hovered him in the air, it made a pair of pirouettes around me and then it veered aloft. It circled, it fell, taken back quota and it stopped him in front of my nose. He/she kissed him/it to me in point of feet.

«It is yours» the sweet green fatina whispered me before disappearing in a cloud of smoke.

In front of the me, on the table, a glass of green liquid. To a snap of fingers of the magician Frederic, fell from the tall one a lump of sugar that quickly loosened him. It extracted from his/her pocket a vial, that brought on the side a writing: laudanum. From it it made to go down a pair of drops in the glass, that the liquid of blood tones dirtied. To the second snap of fingers the liquid takings fire emanating a timid fiammella bluish, that slowly went to grow weak him up to go off himself/herself/themselves.

«This is for you, mon loves. A sip and street. A piece of world is yours. Et voilà!»

Still before entering that fraction of second in which difference is understood among correct and wrong, the warm green liquid already filled my cheeks, the guts and the stomach.

The circus extinguished him, it was struck dumb and implose on himself before returning to the reality, the same one in which I found me completely overdone on a couch to house of Antoine.

I opened the eyes, a due curtain of imaginary smoke to the mix of drugs and alcohol he/she clouded completely my sight. A light dizziness confused my thoughts and for an instant I found it hard even to remember where I was.

The wind, a door that beats, warm, the ocean, the last summer to the Cleopatra Palace of Los Cristianos to Tenerife.

Astrid.

I had gone with Astrid. Yes, I don't remember badly. I had asked him him an evening that we were gone out to drink something. Yes, yes, it seemed success from some hour before how much the memory was clear. He/she wanted to pass to take me with his/her auto. I don't know why, it perhaps did her/it feel more main point, wanted only perhaps to be kind. We would have gone to the cinema and then to drink in some local. A smile ignited me on the face, she to an intersection had collided with the car that had before.

«Eye! Eye!» I had howled her, anchoring me to the seat with the hands, while with the right foot I looked for the pedal of the brake that I obviously had not found. What a country house. You had wanted to call his/her father, I was so embarrassed that I had been behind everybody of it, apparently disinterested, with the look downward, hoping that that moment ended the first possible. I don't know if it were for that small accident or because you/he/she was fallen in love indeed of me, but to the cinema it didn't release an instant my arm.

We ended together in bed and, not to seem even more merda of that that I/you was not already, asked her if he/she wanted to spend a few days with me to Tenerife. Also because it didn't suit me to go alone there. We remained badly when, to return you, didn't call once anymore her back.

A window that squeaks, the breakfast in bed and the swash of the waves on the waterline of white sand. The door beat again and I got scared me.

I got up me of release. No, it was not Tenerife, it was not the ocean. It was Paris, it was night, there was pluvius perfume in the air, a curtain to my shoulders waved patriotic, pushed by the French wind.

And so, standing in the empty apartment of Antoine, I wondered me that end had made all the people. Frederic slept, extended supine on a proper carpet close to a puddle of vomit.

«Hey friend, is better perhaps that we raise us from the balls.» The tolds him throwing to small kick on his side. He responded me with a mixed grunt.

The apartment was empty; I turned in the hope to succeed in finding the bath, pushed by the demand of an immense urination. A model was huddled up behind an armchair of skin and slept with a thread of saliva that went down her from the mouth and a man you/he/she was extended under to the table of the kitchen to naked breast, with the tied up tie in forehead. How disgusting, I thought. A nauseating odor was beginning to climb long my nostrils and I had to suppress a retching.

I turned a pair of rooms, to end in that that I suppose pits the bedroom of Antoine, after all on the right; a door approached from which it filtered some light made me hypothesize it dealt with the bath.

I entered rubbing me the eyes with the hand, trying to avoid that the intense light of the neon bossily entered my head still gotten used to the faint light in which the apartment was lowered.

When I removed from me the fingers from the eyes, the scenery that introduced me before it was totally unexpected. The white relative in front of me brought a showy spot of blood that had begun to strain downward and really under, extended in the tub idromassaggio, the naked body of Antoine. It had the open skull and part of his/her brain you/he/she was squirted behind of him. From the right hand the revolver that had used for shooting him dangled. Here is thing was, not a door beaten by the wind but a hit of gun.

I didn't succeed in removing the eyes from that gruesome scene; only some second later, when I realized the gravity of the situation, I raced away frightened to look for Frederic. It was in the living room that he was systematizing the rubbed suits.

«Frederic! Frederic! Antoine is shot! It is out with the brain of, in bath!»

«What you are saying?» it said unbeliever, lifting him/it look on me, and it directed him with fast footstep toward the bath while the jacket inserted him.

After some according to I saw him/it return of raced by the bedroom of Antoine, but they arrived first his curses.

«Merd! Merd! Merd! Street of here! Street of here!»

He/she took me for the shirt and it dragged out me without giving me the possibility to recover the jacket; I saw the girl get up behind the armchair of skin and to devote us an interrogative glance while it was directing him in direction of the bath.

I gone down the steps two twos, more times risking to fall. Frederic continued to repeat" merd" without never taking care himself/herself/themselves to check that I was behind of him. Just gone out of the building, it began to race and I succeeded in placing side by side me to him up to that we didn't hide there to take breath to some hundred meters from where he/she lived Antoine.

We had the fiatone and folded up, supported on the knees, we looked at there as to the search of an answer. You felt a cry: it was probably the girl that had found Antoine in a lake of blood.

«Now the paramedics will arrive and, very probably, also a beautiful po' of police» Frederic told in a low voice me with still the turned look to the windows of the building of which we were hardly gone out.

The history of that suicidal crazy person explained me as to give him a justification of that that was happened and after few minutes the gendarmeses and the paramedics arrived preceded by their deafening sirens bitonali.

Antoine was tall, a quarantenne from the thin hair and a disputable taste in to dress. Apart the tired but charismatic look, what struck more was his/her radiant smile. It loved the money, it loved them in way spropositato. To the beginning of the eighties you/he/she had discovered the hen from the gold eggs in a new and revolutionary aesthetical laser for the total epilazione. You/he/she had sold, after years of searches of marketing and assuming hundreds of commercial thirsty of blood, this machinery first in France and then in half Europe, riempiendo in that way his/her checking accounts in the tax havens to time of record. Unfortunately, greed had brought him to betray all the clients taking advantage of himself/herself/itself the bona fide of the same and increasing the advantage to excess zeros of its small financial empire. There were so causes and trials, the clients slowly began to go out of the franchising and they put on together in associations to have an award of damages. It was really during the inauguration of a new Spanish center from the architecture avant-gardist, that discovered that all of its good, the Ferraris, the yacht and its houses had been pawned and the total defeat of its empire was hardly begun.

The various trials sentenced the guilt for him and for two lawyers his/her advisers: you have to indemnify partly all the people involved in the fraud. However a happy existence was guaranteed, considering that halves its possessions were of agencies dummy in the islands Cayman. That child of puttana of Murphy had really reason, however: if something is able badly andar, you/he/she will do him/it. And it was so that Antoine, besides losing the job, lost also his wife and the two children. They escaped to Saint Domingo with the most trusted of the commercial ones of Antoine, gone out with the police record cleaned by the trial, the same agent that had made him earn his/her first million of European. Antoine, destroyed and worn out from the events, were accompanied again therefore with an attractive American actress of soap-work that had been testimonial of its products. That however it squandered him in the turn of a few months a beautiful mountain of money to the Casino of Montecarlo, where you/they had taken residence. It was so that Antoine, after having given her a sonorous led and to have taken a report for maltreatments and abuses, left her/it and it devoted him to the druf traffic and prostitution. The fame of Antoine to Saint Germani de Pres was known: if it served you something illegal, you had to ask to him. He/she knew very well that one day all would be ended, that one day a platoon of gendarmes would be raced above for the staircases of its apartment, you/he/she would have broken down the door and you/he/she would have accompanied him handcuffed in the cell that had been assigned him by the destiny. It was not afraid, rather it laughed us, and I believe in all honesty that was preparing an escape in some warm place and to the shelter from the French law.

Despite pits late night, they were assembled some curious that were stopped by the hands it stretched out in before of some agents. Some window of the buildings of forehead ignited and on the windowsill curious other comparirono to the search of explanations to that whole noise.

We remained different hidden minutes, without never looking us, but devoting all of our attention to the movements that were being happened really in front of us. When the body of Antoine was transported in the street extended on a stretcher in a lot black, did I ask to Frederic: «we won't end in the country houses, true?»

«No, I don't believe. They cannot wait to remove from him him from the balls. It is a problem in less to which will owe to think. Besides the dynamics it is clear: you/he/she is done out. To find him/it with the shed brain on the walls of the bath and a revolver anchors fumante in hand he/she leaves few other hypotheses to the case. Them two, will be made even a night in barracks to have some information on the facts and on the whole drug that you/they will surely find in the house,» and it pointed out the girl and the man that I had seen before finding the body of Antoine. You/they were talking to two agents and they had a cover on the shoulders, gives the cold and the damp of the night.

«You feel Frederic, I return in the hotel of it. I am tired, I have headache, I have just seen a man that is made to jump the brains and I is not understanding anything. I hope for you can forgive me if I leave here you this way. Thanks of the company.» The gaves to pacca on his shoulder and The gots further me. He didn't greet me, didn't even dissuade for an instant the look from house of Antoine and, gotten further me of some meter, I felt him/it shout: «Hey! You want one of these!» throwing out of the pockets from the jacket two pouches of cocaine.

I turned me and I made a gesture of anger with his hand as to want to say" it allows to lose" without a thread of voice went out me of the mouth. I saw a taxi in distance. Perhaps the only one on call to that time in all Paris.

I arrived in front of the Montmartrois when the first lights of the dawn made capolino behind the roofs of the city. Hardly I was in room I vomited in the sink the whole taste of that night, I got out of me the shirt and I threw her/it against the wall as to want to kill her/it. I still fell asleep me before touching the bed sinking in a mattress that seemed to swallow me.

### Pont des Arts, Saturday

Extended, supine, I opened the eyes and I saw that there was some mold on the ceiling of my room. It was as if I/you had not slept at all. I was not tired, simply I didn't have the classical rincoglionimento of when he is as soon as awake. The eyelids opened once almost automatically stopped the need of sleep. I had a cadaverous aspect in that position, they only missed the hands come on the breast and a rosary among the fingers.

The first image that bossily eclipsed the reality around me was of Antoine, extended in the bathtub with still the revolver fumante in the right hand, without anymore any sign of life. It had the blocked eyes. Holy Christ. You/he/she was shot, the stupid.

A hit, bang. And away.

I had the fixed look really on that stain of mold that a smile remembered me.

A hit. BANG. And away.

Antoine was killed because it was a coward.

Antoine was killed because it was a brave man.

It had at that time little importance, so much Antoine would have stayed an extended pale body on the cold table of a morgue however.

I studied to the mirror the deep livid occhiaies that marked me the face. I also seemed a corpse me. Those were the only tests that my night had decidedly been troubled. I threw downward her to me until so much that I could see the red of the skin inside the eye and I rubbed me for well the face. I still had the jeans I set and the horse painfully squeezed me the balls. I looked through me the pockets.

A lighter. A ticket used of the meter. A business card of a some Alvy Singer of which I didn't absolutely remember anything. Some cents and a fanfold ticket.

I opened him/it with the same curiosity with which it opens a slip of the one month-old expense before.

Caspita, was the ticket of the girl. Of that blonde girl. I had not let him drown in the few drops of coffee that you/they had remained me, I had picked him up and I was inserted him to me in pocket as soon as before going out of the café on the long Seine.

«Tomorrow to the sunset to the Pont des Arts» I whispered turning me him among hands.

I remained some deprived second of thoughts, then I looked for the time on the wrist clock that I didn't have. I turned on the tv. They were from little trails you are her of the afternoon.

I looked for in suitcase the newest and clean suits that I had and I gone down down, rapid, for the staircases. As if attends him some elevator you/he/she could be the only cause of a possible delay.

Because I was going?

I still remember him/it to me: when I had seen for the first time that ticket I was me said that never and then I would be never fallen in a similar temptation.

But something was changed.

Antoine.

The image of its suicide still wandered about among my neurons without finding the correct position to be forgotten. That blocked eyes. In a last, fatal final gesture.

The plan was changed.

I stopped the taxi in front of the Theatre de the Villas and I told the driver to hold him the rest. It didn't do in time to thank me for the conspicuous tip that I was already crossing the road. My quick footstep was stopped by the hysterical and baritone sound of a truck of the garbage collect that nailed to few meters from me, while some curses came from the box of the vehicle. I apologized with a rapid gesture of the hand, without not even taking care of to look me at him in the eyes and I continued in direction of the Louvre. I crossed the avenue planted with trees that it brings to the museum while the sun began to infuocarsi at the end of it. I found me in few minutes, gasping, really in front of the Café du Pont Neuf. I tried a strange feeling, it was not new, I would have sworn only that I would not have heard again anymore her. The stands on the long Seine he was populating of people to the search of some second-hand book; by now it was the sunset and the sun it was so low that it almost touched the Pont des Art.

The heart had begun to beat, after so much time, for something of truth. I tried to put me in the middle of the Pont Neuf and I squeezed the eyes against the dazzling light of the sunset to see if you/he/she had already arrived. It was at that time that me granted, for the first time in that day, to light up me a cigarette. I greedily inhaled a pair of mouthfuls and I pushed out the smoke from the nostrils causing me a brief fit of dizziness, clear signal that my physicist required more than oxygen that of nicotine. I leaned on me of back to the muretto of the bridge, giving the shoulders to the unexpected deviation that the destiny was reserving me. Sees my avarice of smoke the cigarette it lasted really little. I taken a big breath as to have to face a long apnea and I turned me. I tightened again the eyes and I fathomed the whole bridge to her search.

No, there was not. I bewared to the right of left and vice versa a couple of times but nothing. You/he/she would not perhaps have come. Even you/he/she had changed mind. Who did him him to do to meet a stranger on a wood bridge to Paris. I seemed to tell me a lot of excuses, almost anymore to justify me that her. I threw out the air that I had inhaled in abundance, as to want to go out of a long and weary immersion.

Here it is. Cazzo was her. It was really in front of me, sat on one of the so many benches prepared along the bridge. Despite the distance it was notable as also my myopia, there was no doubt: that heap of blonde hair owed for strength being her. It was there and it waited for me. I could not believe us. I threw downward with strength the angles of the mouth that he was lifting, almost not to want to display too happiness suppressing the first true sincere smile after so much time.

I taken another abundant mouthful of air and street. I crossed the whole avenue without breathing, holding the eyes anchored to that blonde hair in the case you/he/she had ever wanted to consider us.

The bridge stretched out him in front of me, the sun it marked the shades, long under to the feet of the people: she was there. I climbed, with the heart in throat and the fast breath, the three steps that separated me from the wood aces of the Pont des Art. Without there pits a particular motive, captured my attention the to wave proud of the French flag hoisted above to the eardrum of the façade of the Institut de France that I had before.

Allons enfantes de the Countries, the jours de east gloire arrivé.

Before children of the Country, the day of glory has arrived.

I inflated the breast of patriotism and I went verse of her. More I drew near me, more I recognized the same girl that I had seen in front of the hotel and in subway. There were no more doubts.

It had the same jacket of when I had seen her and his/her eyes, covered by the same white Wayfarer that had countersigned her, they looked timid and resigned downward, over the slender crossed legs.

I reduced my footstep and I took a seat me really of side to her, trying to make to notice me the less possible. He/she didn't see me.

«It is marvelous Paris, it is not true?» I said looking at the Ile de the Cité that stood out me before illuminated of orange.

The girl turned him and an earphone removed from him from the ear.

«How, do you excuse?»

He/she remained without breath not a word. I kept on looking before, but I could see with the tail of the eye that the sunglasses raised him and remained surprised.

«Ah, has come then.» it sentenced, while it was rolling up the cuffiettes around the reader mp3 and it inserted him/it in the purse.

«You had some doubts?»

«Someone, didn't know for how many sunsets I would have waited you.»

«One day you will explain me because really I, am not true?»

«Yes, if for you it is so important, one day I will explain you him.»

And we looked at there astute in the eyes.

«But mistake or me I have already seen you?» I asked her while I was looking at her lips without reservedness.

«Oh no, you are not wrong you. I have followed you.»

«Mr. judge, this girl has admitted his/her guilt» The lifteds the voice gesticulating, as to lawyer in court.

I tore her a smile that became flushed some same tones of the sunset. Its eyes were blue. I believe that nobody can say to have ever seen the blue, if first you/he/she has not seen his/her eyes.

«Certain, I am not ashamed to admit him/it. When I want a thing anybody it doesn't stop me. My name is Enrica.»

«To like, Francis.»

Its hand was in mine and I was at home. That hand in my hand, its skin on my skin, transmitted the whole heat and the protection that I had not felt for a long time.

«Now however you have to tell me if you are to the game, Francis» it told me slightly folding up the head of side, as to want to see me from another point of view.

«To the game?»

«Yes, for me already the fact that you have come here is a yes. However I ask you him, he/she is never known.»

«But in thing it consists?»

«No no no. Are you in or six out?»

«Ok, are in your hands» I said widening the braccias in sign of surrender.

Smiled Enrica and a bigliettino lengthened me very similar to what had left me in pocket.

«Very well you hold.»

«Thing is?»

«Oh, how much questions, as soon as I will go away you will open him/it and you will understand. You/he/she has been a pleasure to know you Francis. We see us tomorrow.»

«The pleasure is mine, mademoiselle.»

You supported again the glasses on the nose, as if that pits the mask of a supereroe and he/she greeted me with a gesture of the hand while it was getting further behind my shoulders. I reciprocated with a smile while the sun was lowered behind by now of me and the lamp-posts above to the bridge they magically ignited.

TOMORROW. 10 AMs. PYRAMID.

E.

It was another invitation. That girl wanted to play and anything had in mind I wanted to do of it you/he/she departs.

The sunset extinguished him and left space in the sky to the lights of small and timid stars. I remained on that bench to still think some.

### Louvre, Sunday

The following morning I woke up soon myself and I filled the terrible void that there was in my stomach with a buttery croissant bought in a boulangerie next to my hotel.

I was beautiful, fresh and rested. A rigenerante shower had made its duty and a rapids trimming you/he/she had given me a younger and less dejected aspect. It almost seemed that all the thoughts had slipped down for the I unload.

I had thought for a long time about Enrica during the night, fixing the usual stain of mold illuminated by the weak lights of the cities.

I didn't make sense of me thing yet he/she wanted from me that girl, to that game wanted to play and because you/he/she had chosen really a depressed desperate as me.

Definite that was not the moment of I handed some questions, as you/he/she had said her: if I had presented to the appointment, it meant that I had given my consent.

The taxi deposited me near the Jardins des Tuileries, next to the panoramic wheel. I crossed all the gardens crossing every now and then some Sunday walkers. They raced hidden behind their mirror glasses, without never dissuading the look from that imaginary destination that you/they had, before that you/he/she could be the loss of weight, the I unload of some stress or simply the desire to make some movement.

The air in Paris was hardly dirtied by a light pluvius perfume and the Sunday traffic he introduced less weapon and noisy in comparison to that of the week. I walked on the pads of unexpected joy, totally unexpected in comparison to the plan that had brought me until there.

The Pyramid detached in the mean of the classical complex of the Museum of the Louvre. Inaugurated in 1989 by the president François Mitterrand, some gossips canters I attribute to that construction of the strange esoteric meanings. It is enough demons. Up to that moment I had seen until too many of it to Paris.

For the time being, despite I/you had looked with accuracy, there was no trace of Enrica yet. I also thought that you/he/she could be everything one joke.

I made a pair of turns around that monumental pyramid of glass and really in front of the entrance that brings to the museum I felt a hand touch me the shoulder.

«Good morning. You have come today also. You don't joke then.»

«Good morning to her, mademoiselle. An appointment never misses I.»

«But who tells you that this is an appointment?» ironizzò while it was throwing me for an arm. «You come, we go.»

We entered the Pyramid and we went down the mobile staircases that bring to the entrance of the museum.

We turned for the immense rooms of the Louvre, almost at random, crossing ancient heirlooms Egyptians and etruschi. We knew from near the attractive Venus of Milo and the imposing Nike of Samotracia. Enrica studied Love and Psyche of Anthony Canova turning around us, with the look to focus every smaller detail. I studied her his/her immense blonde hair that framed that face. With that serious pout, assembled, on the face. You/they would have had to put also her in a museum to make free to his/her beauty. It photographed the statue from different anglings and it also photographed me.

«Tiè, so you learn» it said aiming me the flash in the eyes.

It smiled at me and I would have liked it always served him/it as that moment in then, because it was never enough for me.

Enrica liked to be there, it seemed that it was to his/her ease in that world. He/she asked me opinions, opinions and me I joked and I always took around the funny faces of the Japanese with the photographic car in hand, ready to go off to each work that he introduced him before. You laughed and me he/she anchors I could not believe us.

Wandering about we arrived in a room where about ten people were assembled to look at a wall that to the appearance it seemed empty.

«But excuse, Enrica. Because those people look at that wall?»

«You/they are looking if it smiles.»

«If it smiles? A wall?»

«But no. Do you know who is there before, true?»

«A wall?»

«But thing you are saying? There is the Joyous one!»

«Ugh, the Joyous one, caspita» I said, putting some derision among my words.

Smiled Enrica me again and it struck accomplice my shoulder with his.

«You come, we go to see if it also smiles at you.»

«But thing you want that I/you/he/she smile at me...»

«Ugly sulker menagramo that you are not other, comes» and it shook its hand in mine.

Monna Lisa was in front of us, in a reliquary thick different centimeters to avoid that some malicious could deface her/it. I don't know what the people can find in that painting. But it seemed alive and it looked me.

«It smiles?» Enrica asked me.

«Mah. boh... don't seem me. Seem me more incazzatas how happy.»

«It is because you don't smile at her. If you look at her/it with that serious sulker it will never smile at you. It is already so much that has not escaped. You see, you have to do so» and it turned his/her mouth into the most radiant smile that was able.

«Here it is, sees, you/he/she has smiled at me. It also tries you.»

«There is no danger, it doesn't exist that I/you/he/she smile at a picture.»

«Test!» it told me in so authoritarian tone that nobody left me choice, if not to favor his/her order.

This way I deformed my face in a malefic sneer, that more than a smile seemed a grimace of pain.

Enrica looked at me and then the picture. Then still me, then still the picture.

«No, it allows to lose Francis. You are not her nice» and a kiss stamped me on a cheek.

We went out of the Louvre; she held me sottobraccio and for a second I desired not to find me there. I was not for that there. I had not gone to Paris to fall in love me.

I wanted to commit suicide me.

Enrica held my arm as if he/she wanted not to make to escape me, never. He/she spoke, it told something that my ears didn't succeed in feeling, because the past he was done too much deafening at that time.

I shook the head, as ago a just fallen dog in the water, to raise me every single thought from the head.

In the business center under to the Louvre we sheltered there in a megastore of music. Enrica made me see a harvest of Edith Piaf and lifted the thumb in sign of approval. I showed her a copy of Bring It All Back Home of Bob Dylan: I adored Subterranean Homesick Blues, I had incessantly listened to her in the three months that I had passed a few years in New York before.

We ended to overdo us of caffeine in a Starbucks. Did hot coffee twist me the guts and Enrica it said: «you are nice, do you know?»

«I don't believe really.»

«Yes, instead.»

«Because you have chosen me Enrica? How have you found me? Me. The don'ts succeed in understanding.»

«There is no anything to understand. Did you have need to be saved only, it is not true?»

I remained in silence to fix the vapor of the hot coffee that went out of my glass of cardboard. Enrica was perhaps right: in an ideal world I had to have saved from the destiny that I had foreseen it waited me. Enrica owed to have noticed my silence and probably my embarrassment to that question, tant'è that for some second she was hissed also. It trafficked in the purse, and it extracted a yellow post-it on which he/she wrote something of it.

«For me it is time to go.» he/she left the attached ticket to the glass of coffee that you/he/she was drinking and it got up from the chair. I didn't even try to stop her/it. Everything was so unreal. Everything so strange that owed for strength to have a sense. I saw her climb the mobile staircases and to disappear from my view. Enrica: it is perhaps the second name of the angels?

I detached from his/her glass the post-it that had left.

10 AMs. OUR LADY.

E.

### Notre Dame

I, as if you/he/she had not been me other to be done. I ended with absolute calm my hot coffee and I returned in the hotel of it, not before having bought a postcard of the Monna Lisa that I attached to the mirror of the room.

Out of the window, in a frame of clouds pluvius loaded grigie, a crow ate a dead pigeon. Because the life, to survive, eats who of life doesn't have of it more.

### Notre Dame, Monday

During the night the rain washed from the roofs in Paris all the sins of which you/he/she was dirtied. But, out of the stop of the meter St. Michel, the sun shone among some clouds of passage. The traffic of Monday morning smelled of smog.

I crossed the road and on the other side of the Seine, fresh of restauration, Notre Dame was risen.

In the square in front of it tourists' about ten with the nose to the insù challenged the elasticity of his/her own neck to try to see besides the bell tower, where once was said a maladjusted Quasimodo he/she lived.

The twenty-eight statues of the kings of Israel and the Kingdom of Giuda, set above the three arcades, they looked me and they followed anxiously me to each footstep that I did.

I recognized the long blonde curls of Enrica among the pigeons that flew away as to want the free road to leave her.

I drew near me and when I was her before I made her a sort of bow, throwing out, from behind the back, a rose that I had escaped from the bistrot in which I had had breakfast.

«Mademoiselle, a small floral homage for her.»

«Thanks, monsieur» it said sniffing the rose, and he/she kissed me on the lips.

This way.

As it was the simplest thing that could do.

We remained one in front of the other, to avoid to already say all those said words. There was no motive to fill that empty space. And the space and the time were suspended.

That instants filled me the heart and they devastated him/it in the same moment. I don't know for what motive the love and the death were fighting in my mind.

«You come with me» I said, taking by the hand Enrica.

We sat there on one of the benches hidden among the hedges in front of Notre Dame.

Enrica, seeing me the lost look over the normal horizons, did he/she ask me: «there is something that doesn't go?»

I supported the elbows on the knees and I covered me the face with the hands; I could feel the odor of mine long and you lavish breaths.

«I am not understanding, Enrica. I was here in Paris, then me and you you have arrived now I don't know thing anymore to do.»

On his/her face it ignited a pale smile, taken a long breath and he/she perhaps thought to what words were at that time the most suitable.

«I read your blog.»

«How?» I said, with more than a question mark, suddenly turning me toward of her.

«I read your blog. I don't remember as I have found you. I didn't succeed in stopping reading him/it, I forded your photos and I didn't see the time that I/you adjourned him/it to have a wedge in more than you. Then, when you have stopped, the excuse that me are given for going away from a life have become that it was not able to give me nothing anymore.»

The only words that went out us of the mouth, that day, it seemed they had need to be followed by the silence. Almost to want to give them more weight of that that you/they didn't already have.

It is really in that instant it went out the sun, stronger than never, without nobody warned us. And the atmosphere took the thickness of a song of love, that the past ripesca to make to move you. Writing to hurt you star from the so much that he is well. A good that veers to the evil when the last notes dissolve him in a broken heart. And he/she returns every moment in the most wrong moment. In the sweat and in the perfume, among the sheets. In the loneliness of a Sunday in winter.

And the sun illuminated the eyes of Enrica, that mine that you/they cried timid tears of liberation looked, or of an alone sadness.

It drew near to us a little boy down with an old Polaroid to the neck. It folded up to the left the head, then to the right, and it put on a finger in mouth for the embarrassment.

«Hi» Enrica told him.

He served back a footstep as the embarrassment and he/she greeted her/it with the hand. Then takings the Polaroid and if it put her/it next to the eye. The click made a mechanical noise and the car it spit from before the photo. It gave her/it for me in hand and, with a satisfied smile, meeting escaped to the calls of his/her/their mother that you/he/she was looking for him/it.

The photo defined my contours and of Enrica in some second. We were really her and I. Sat on that bench in the same identical position in which we were looking at the photo.

It is so that a sense is given to the things, I thought. It is so that it stops the present and him/it to him it makes him immortal.

I didn't know more than what feeling to die, even if to die would already have been a good result.

«Me. The have to go» The tolds Enrica, while anxiety was insinuating himself/herself/itself in every pore of my dirty skin.

«It waits, I pray you, I leave you a.»

«No, Enrica. No bigliettinis this time. No bigliettinis.»

I turned her the shoulders and I went.

I never turned me. The fixed look for earth, kept low from a boulder of negative vibrations and confusion. I took to spallate every person that I was me before. Fast and without destination.

I arrived in front of the hotel de Villas without not even realizing me of it. It is in the confusion of my thoughts I jammed me and a sort of invaded lucidity me the brain.

Love and death.

Death.

I turned me and I raced ripercorrendo my footsteps, in the vain attempt to reach Enrica. The second name of the angels.

Because she had come for saving me there and it was not a case. I don't know him/it if has been the strength of the life, the divine intervention or a simple mental confusion, but I returned back of run. So fast to make the breath lose me and to make the heart go out me of the breast.

Enrica was still where I had left her.

Panting, I looked far her from, with the out expression of whom seems to have lost the war most important the whole life.

«I have been wrong» they were the only words that I succeeded in making to go out of my damned mouth.

And I believe that the all the words of the world extinguished him, that anybody of it accompanied us to them in the journey that brought us in its room of hotel. That they timidly relighted him in the form of sighs and kind moans to like. All the vowels would not have been enough for to complete our pleasure. I believe that they detached the flight, illuminated by the incumbent sunset, you set on fire, emitting the perfume of Enrica. Of his/her sweat. Of those droplets that went to form him on his/her skin.

Then the instincts appeased him. Its breath changed frequency on my belly.

Its sleep marked the it waked up again of my nightmares.

Never so so much confusion had taken possession of my body. They were the ghosts of the drug, of my preceding life, of the success, of the desire to possess everything. It was the desire to do ended her/it. It was the desire to give everything to the eternity.

«I have already given.» they pronounced my lips without sending forth to breath not to wake up the sleep of the angel.

Few cares if it were evening or late night; I slowly slipped out of his/her embrace, I taken back my suits and I gone down for the road.

«Bon nuit monsieur» it said at night the doorman of the hotel. It had to have you approve more than one of it, of desperate men, in his/her life; it was even perhaps one of them.

I got up me the collar of the trench, I passed me a hand among the hair and then, with the hands in pocket, I did the possible one to be in front of the other. I passed in front of the Café du Floras, I turned to the left and I devoted a look to the church of Saint-German-de-Prés. I crossed the hold Rue Bonaparte and, some footstep later, the long Seine. The Ponts des Arts.

I leaned on me to the handrail; the clouds had left the place to the clear one of moon: it reflected him pale on the Seine, that flowed placid under to my feet. I lifted the look to the sky and the stars they filled the celestial time. Distant and unattainable, splendid and shining of the light of a past that for us it is present. And I wondered me if on another planet, to million of years light from us, someone would ever have seen my present.

Present of once in which I moved my baricentro and the handrail seemed not to be able to hold up anymore, the hands ached under the weight of my body.

Nothing. My body returned back. There was no explanation, any reason, the living beings are made for preserving their life and my lucidity it was not enough for" a footstep and down."

Fottuti human beings.

Fottuta the intelligence that we bring inside.

We are the only animals aware of to die. We know him/it to us that there won't be anymore one day. The dogs, the cats and all the animals don't know that they have to die. They lives, every fottuto moment. Happy.

Then one day, in summer, in winter, they cares few, they extinguish him. Without the least worry than makes evil. Without any regret.

And I was there, in unstable balance, literally, on the life. Undecided if it were more painful to continue or to do ends her/it.

I again drowned the hands in my trench, giving a sonorous kick to that too moment next to the end.

The bells of the Sacred Coeur tolled insistent in the heart of the night. I didn't succeed in sleeping, the bed seemed sprinkled of painful nails by so much that was me impossible to be extended. I looked out of the window the effect that made March, that the sky of yellow painted in Paris.

In my small room too much to contain all that ghosts, I was alone, as I had always been. A loneliness accompanied by the stupendous fresh memory of Enrica the angel that had disarranged the rest of my life. I ignited me a regardless cigarette of the prohibition, sat to the table. Paper and pen in front of me.

I began to write without thinking, leaving that the pen transcribed the deafening whisper of an enviable destiny:

I woke up with the closed eyes.

An enormous pain to the head prevented me from opening them. The only thing that I succeeded in feeling they were the mucous ones of the mouth shoals, the lips that threw and the language that curled up for the lack of saliva. I tried to swallow more times, only hearing an acute pain to the throat. I became me account that I was extended on a soft surface, perhaps a bed or a couch. I tried to start my body: the feet, the calves, the gluteis, the right arm. The left arm seemed not to answer to the stimuli that the brain was sending him. I felt under it to the breast. I turned a couple of times me on myself and I realized me that the arm was totally deprived of sensibility. It seemed an extraneous arm the arm of a corpse. I had to pick him/it up and to lift him/it with the other hand. Blood started to flow back, I felt him/it to flow impetuous from the shoulder up to the point of the fingers and I let me escape a cry of pain confused by a hysterical laughter. I kept on not succeeding in opening the eyes. Eyelids give it didn't filter light. I didn't know what time it was, in that place I was me and the memoirs were piled up in my mind. I cleared up me the throat, swallowing. The mucous ones of the mouth began to soften, the muscles to have a certain mobility.

I opened the eyes...

And the hand wrote the whole night, confused in the smoke of too, so many cigarettes. Cigarettes in out truth never. I smoke that went to add him to the fog that already towered in my head and to the tiredness of my body, that still perfumed of Enrica. The first lights of the dawn entered from the heavy curtains and, by now reached the fund of a cheap bottle of rum, I lost the senses.

### Old hand, Tuesday March 17 th

I was standing in front of the mirror and the white skin, emaciated, it resembled in scandalous way to the lattiginoso stained with color the walls of the room.

The look was absent and I didn't feel anything. Wet hair dripped on the shoulders. I passed you in mean the comb that marked some deep furrows.

You/he/she was finishing the ventitreesima bottle of rum and me I had stopped breathing. I.

I inserted the pants, I laced the shoes and I tightened the knot to the tie up to that it didn't hurt. I systematized the collar of the shirt and I inserted the jacket.

The room was in disorder, the suits shed and different sheets were awkwardly stacked on the tavolino. I taken the first sheet and read my curved and messy calligraphy. I drained in an alone sip the rum remained in the bottle and I cleaned me the mouth with the back of the hand. I threw out of the inside pocket of the jacket a packet of Camel, I slipped me a cigarette among the lips and the turned on. Dry tobacco sizzled to contact with the flame. I blew the smoke above those words, I taken the pen and I began to write:

I was standing in front of the mirror and the white skin, emaciated it resembled in scandalous way to the lattiginoso stained with color the walls of the room.

The look was absent and I didn't feel anything. Wet hair dripped on the shoulders. I passed you in mean the comb that marked some deep furrows.

You/he/she was finishing the ventitreesima bottle of rum and I had stopped breathing. I.

I inserted the pants, I laced the shoes and I tightened the knot to the tie up to that it didn't hurt. I systematized the collar of the shirt and I inserted the jacket.

The room was in disorder, the shed suits and a battery of sheets you/he/she was awkwardly stacked on the tavolino. I taken the first sheet and read my curved and messy calligraphy. I drained in an alone sip the rum remained in the bottle and I cleaned me the mouth with the back of the hand. I threw out of the inside pocket of the jacket a packet of Camel, I slipped me a cigarette among the lips and the turned on. Dry tobacco sizzled to contact with the flame. I blew the smoke above those words, I taken the pen and I began to write:

I was twelve years old. I returned home from school, mother it was at work. As usual I opened the door and I launched the backpack on the armchair of the living room. Oddly the car of dad was in the path, it owed to have forgotten something that served him in shop.

«Dad?! Dad?!»

He/she didn't answer me. I looked for in the kitchen, in bedroom, in garage, in the replacement behind house. Strange, I thought, you/he/she has gone afoot perhaps to shop. I shook the shoulders.

I raced in bath, the frenzy of the search had filled me the bladder. I took a seat me on the water, as mother you/he/she had taught me not to dirty, in sign of respect for my two sisters and for her. Dad and I were there very careful to this thing, they held a lot us.

To my right, really behind the door, there was the playpen of the shower. There was inside someone. Dad.

I quickly lifted the pantalonis and I opened the flowing door of the playpen. Dad was suspended, with a rope to the neck. And with the eyes still blocked it looked me.

Dad was dead. Dad was killed. Dad was killed.

I remember that didn't cry. I only closed me in my room while for house policemen's bustle, relatives and funeral pomps upset the peace of my mind.

The night when Dad was hung for the neck taken a disk by my collection of vinyls, Harvest. I extracted him/it from the custody of cardboard, I stole above from you and I abandoned him/it on the turntable. I supported the head on the black furrow in the vinyl, some particles of dust dirtied the first arpeggios of guitar and then Neil it sang:

Old hand look at my life

I'm not like you were

Old hand look at my life

I'm not like you were

### Epilogue

The morning of March 18 the agent of police Jean Pierre Gillot of the You arrondissement in Paris found a trench supported des to the handrail of the Pont Arts. The takings, opened him/it and studied him/it before and behind. It checked the pockets and from that right it extracted a Polaroid. It was the photo of a boy and a girl. He was supported with the elbows on the knees, it had the serious look. You lengthened the arm behind his/her back, it smiled. Jean Pierre found on the back of the photo a writing:

HOTEL MONTMARTROIS. CAMBRE 79

Instinctively the agent looked over the handrail the crinkled waters of the Seine. Taken by the surrounded one a walkie-talkie and he/she sent a police squad to check. The blue door of the room 79 were demolished after having knocked and called for different minutes. You/he/she had not been answered there. You/they were dressed shed there anywhere and different bottles of rum are been stacked in an angle of the room. On the bed, four blisters of Xanax from 50mg had been completely emptied. While on the tavolino, tied up with a string, a manuscript. The agent Jean Pierre Gillot the takings in hand and he/she read the first lines:

In front of the hotel he/she always sits a blonde girl, I pray you, you give this manuscript to her.

Francis

The agent looked to the right, then to the left, as to will to be sure not to be looked. Behind his/her shoulders, a colleague was questioning the Indian manager of the hotel. It said that they were days that he/she didn't see him/it, that the maid had knocked more times but you/he/she had never been answered there. Him of however you/he/she was not worried, considering that the first week had paid him all one month of pernottamento.

It put us few to imagine what had to have happened, although it didn't have to the shoulders so many years of career; it came immediately to understand that you/he/she had to be treats him of a suicide. Who knows how much it owed to have suffered that man in that room, he/she thought. You/he/she had to surely have been intoxicated and it owed to have thrown down all in a hit that ansioliticis before throwing himself/herself/themselves from the Pont des Arts, leaving the trench first on the handrail.

Jean Pierre looked again at the manuscript that held among the hands, it then a couple of times if it inserted him/it under arm and it went out of the room.

It opened the heavy input port in beaten iron and not credette to his/her eyes when in front of itself he/she saw a girl blonde session on the muretto. It made some footstep in before, until you/he/she could see his/her red eyes bathed by the tears.

«Mademoiselle, pardon. I believe that this is for her.»

«It is of Francis, true?»

Jean Pierre nodded bewildered and he/she left that the girl removed from his hands the packet of sheets. The girl got further, to definitely disappear behind the angle.

The agent shook the head, it inserted him the hands in pocket and it returned in the hotel to compile the whole documentation for a presumed case of suicide.

The Seine is a green river that goes from the emerald of the days of sun to the color of the dark jade when the sky is leaden. Enrica looked at her/it flow under of itself, sat on the same bench of the day in which it knew Francis. It held the manuscript that had received from the agent of the polices on the knees, it didn't look at him/it, almost for fear that consumed him. It was cold, the wind disarranged her the long blonde curls and its sad eyes they were hidden from the sunglasses.

Enrica didn't want to know neither that day neither anymore what happened to that man. But, after so much time, returned to one life that had learned to love, after being him lost among the words of that manuscript, it sometimes went on internet. You loaded a black page, the heading that pulsated in the eyes, red.

Arkham.

### Thanks

A thanks to all the people that have been involved during the layout of this novel, especially to my brother Alexander, to patiently have bed to tall voice this book to understand if it had a sense, for the suggestions and to have borne all of my deliriums. Thanks.

My spiritual brothers Cristian and Michael, to be always us when there is need, for a moment of serenity, for a beer, a ring, for a life passed together. Thanks.

Serene Scandellari, for the precious suggestions. Thanks.

Francis Bianconi to have me permission to use the title of one song of his to give the name to this creation of my mind and for the whole music that creates and that riempie the empty spaces of this book. To the Baustelles and he, thanks.

Ryan Adams, because its songs have allowed me to go on when the road seemed ended. Thanks.

Hunter S. Thompson, because its spirit comes me to find ago every night and me fear. Thanks.

Jack Bellodi, he knows why. Thanks.

Last but not less main point, a thanks to:

Greta, for the love, for the future, to be today and forever my only dream. Thanks.

### The author

Marcello P Bellodi was born and alive in the Low Modenese.

He/she believes in the gods and for the time being it survives.

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