The war is over Page 3

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.