EVOLUZIONE CORROTTA
autumn winter 2017/2018
I cannot find the way home.
From up here, you look like numbered hotel rooms, identical to each other.
I cross open doors where closed minds dwell, in apnea between clouds and carbon black waters.
I fly over the city, hands that grasps, hands that scratch themselves, stealing the possession of things
which won’t last. Money sneaks in pockets, in stories, in judgements that turn out to be golden like the fake jewelry of a little girl on the phone.