Day One. To Tell.


Malpensa airport sleeps even if it is late. Malpensa drinks a coffee before the take-off.

The order of priorities that are the soul of this country puts my plans at risk, plans that were born to be confused, and born not to be born at all. I stand still in the one quarter of a man space seat , the heart pierced with joy that trembles from fear everytime I sing my goodbye, I am not sure if I should stay awake or pretend to sleep. I am not sure that sleeping all along the sea in the middle will wake me up when in the city, and I am not sure of the name of the sleeping pill I took.

I don’t know anything useful for real, at the moment. Nothing that can keep me awake.

I only know that I suddendly open my eyes, on the fortune of being alive. A dull thud of good luck and America, greeted as it was the Jubilee of the whole cabin. And I, with no other faith that struggle, don’t allow myself to clean my eyelids, looking at the new world as if it was new again. As if it was still to tell.