CROCIFISSO IN SALA MENSA (cafeteria crucifixion).
Laugh scared today. You will be like me tomorrow. I will be somewhere else already.
 
TERRA (land).
I detest the land, the land where I was born. The same land that keeps me tied, the same land where the borders of what we are allowed to are drawn. Nobody put me on the edges, I took shelter there, counting the days, feverishly waiting for the disaster that I, refractory, invoke.
 
COTIDIE MORI (dying everyday).
Born of a cruel or indifferent womb. Every minute past. Lived means dead. I am born and then dead, how long did I live? Nothing lasting more than an instant. Illusions and regrets about a time, past or future, that doesn’t belong to me. But I am not hiding, no, I am not seeking comfort: with eyes on the ground I am not looking back anymore. I am not looking back anymore. I die everyday.
 
IL MODO, IL MOTIVO, IL FINE (the way, the reason, the aim).
"Fighting headfirst all the time can hide the tragic inability to raise the head and consider the best way to fight". The reason for which we choose to fight. The aim for which we fight.
 
L’UNA O L’ALTRA (one way or the other).
He's in front of me. Too close. I can see the tight swollen veins. And it feels like that pulsating blood was mine. This time I will not need my cynicism. It’s in his act that my salivation stops, with the tought that just by chance that boy is not me. With the tought that for a reason that boy is not me. Is not me.
 
UOMO QUALUNQUE (ordinary man).
Purchase comfort at the mall, drown in other people; lose yourself with your pain. Not even bothered by what happens inside of you, lost in hedonistic superiority. Deny yourself for fear of finding yourself different.
 
DUE GRAMMI DI RIVOLUZIONE (two grams of revolution).
The farce keeps going. Revolution is dead in the mouth full of rhetoric of the ones who want it to be talk and self-boasting instead of fact. Yours is just another role in the unbearable social play. You are exactly what you thought you were fighting against, you have become what they want you to be. You have lost, we all have lost.
 
OGNI MIO GESTO (all of my gestures).
The voice was running after itself. Me, motionless, in the middle: "This is not the way you'll sleep tonight". Because what we had in front of us then wasn't going to be anything but a mark carved in our conscience, an unavoidable presence. I've dissected all of my gestures, I've weighed all of my words, but the differences kept turning me away from the memory of who I was. I told myself: "Night, let me become night too". My new lucidity turned was useless. That laughing was louder than mine. Minute after minute, a new dawn was fading.

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