Web of things

I wish we were in Rome. One of these evenings, so sweet and cold, while Christmas is approaching, I would have come to hear you sing at the Teatro Argentina.
I would have eagerly left my stage, after the last applause, to come waiting for you at the side exit.

As far as we are obliged by the certainty of death, there is no such obligation to cohabit with hatred, sorrow and pain, whose place in life is sanctioned by no other than ourselves.

The darkness engulfs the astonished spectator. What can I ask of you and myself?
Non offendere, perdona, chiedi scusa, dì: “è permesso?”. Pensieri su questa guerra, su qualsiasi.