Tag Archive: can I consider this writing?


The next time he saw her was two months later, summer ready to burst with its heat.

She sat alone at a café table, watching the contents of her mug.

He almost didn’t recognize her at first as she looked more and more odd to his eyes.

Worn and paler. Thin as a rail. Quiet as a mouse.

He approached, sitting in front of her without a ‘by your leave’.

She watched him.

He in one of his best linen suits, fit and healthy, strong jaw and perfectly trimmed beard.

She was shabby, all her clothes in dark colors, with bags under eyes missing all the fight.

And what ails you, fairer lady amongst fair?

She ignored the sarcasm, pale fingers curved on the mug, eyes casted down.

Something cold, dark, gripped him raising his hackles.

The mirror, its reflecting quality gone, stood silent and livid.

Substance dripped slowly onto the floor, pooling in one big puddle full of mercury.

The unnamed feeling in his breast, so new, was fear.



Adone didn’t see her for a few weeks and life went on.

Unchanged and defined by his taste and desires.

No anger in his mind, no missing void.

Sometimes he smelled the lingering perfume of her hair, French lavender in a summer twilight.

As time passed her eyes were dark and watchful in the fatigued mirror.

Heavy nightcaps did nothing to banish her out from the surface or from the sheets on his bed while deep in dream.

Every morning, every button fastened and wrinkle pressed away, he was the same.

Commanding his empire of pawns with gentle pushes onward and shoving weaklings down in six feet of mud.

He could be cruel just like her and take pleasure in it.

One day the flaming sword would fall on her dark head and he’ll have the she-daemon unclawed at last.


He was amused, sourly bored by his old life, searching her out.

She didn’t like his attitude one bit, more bitter towards all he was than ever.

The months leading to spring were passed sparring like blood lusting fiends.

Both too conceited to withdraw from the carnage and too prideful to admit kinship.

Above their heads the sun ascended burning cold, reflecting in her eyes, melting matter.

Primal was the moment he found a way to cage her moonlit beside him for one evening.

No care spared, nor love or true hate found them while beautiful human voices danced in the dark, beneath them.

Her pale profile stark in the dim light, silken hair braided softly in an updo heavy on the nape of her neck.

One lone tear shimmering down her cheek as the last tragic aria ended and her eyes closed.

Later, at her door, he earned a sharp slap that turned his head sideways and would smart for a few days.

A true hellion of a woman, not half his size, and amusing him immensely.

That night a mirror wept in agony, warped and unclear.


A will to behold hers.

Unforgiving and cruel, unbending to pleasantries.

He knew it, he tried but nothing lured her.

Her cupid’s bow so tight in irritation at his not so casual presence.

Eyes flashing, a tongue fully able to drew blood with tones so cold winter frost was nothing.

You just want something you’ll never have.

He wasn’t relenting, smiling kindly, always kindly.

He who had everything hard-cash money could buy, could stand the novelty of her whims, the simple plebeian life she led.

Admiring the blinding heat of her spirit, the too sharp wit, the savage gleam buried in those eyes.

They weren’t alike, he had to admit in the shadows of his parlor nursing the last drink, they were two sides of one coin.

Never supposed to meet. whispered a mirror weakly in the room beside, strangely straining in the middle. Remember little soldier that tin will melt too near the sun.


A recurrent thought into the snowstorms through the years.

A pale face carved in the finest bone china with just a hint of colour.

Jutting stubborn chin, square jaw and lips dark red.

She was crowned with a thick head of dark silk and eyes-

The first time she laid eyes on him all his beauty, politeness and apparent perfection fled.

She smiled, no words still, a dark look in those thrice-damned eyes.

Then her voice hard and rough carved a path no self-inducing could dim in his ears.

A voice with no pity or kindness, omniscient and ringing true in its spite.

Few bitter words made to lower him to just a man, less than one, sickly poison in his ear.

No-one ever shamed his riches and fortune before.

She did and watched silent while the mirror revolved precariously, turning negative and black, all he thought himself to be cracked more easily than ice.


Moonlit reflection casted upon a sleeping form.

Every plane, every ridge and muscle defined by silver.

Silent underwater room, richly furnished.

The moon climbs through the glass, scintillating on the black lacquered bed stand, shining brightly on the cold brass woman, whispering sweet nothings on the linen sheets.

The bed is empty for Adone, always was.

The cracked mirror watches while the tin soldier breathes a world he no longer owns.

And the moon cracks too, like a mere egg’s shell.

Graceful and sweet is the coo of her voice trough the crack.

Find the shore you lost, little tin man as for all your brute strength, polite smiles and cold heart, She will never return.

Not to you or anyone else as she found her freedom in blindness.


Adone in a suit.

Starched to perfection from head to toe.

Made to belong on the best streets of the best cities of this world made of dirt.

A gentleman first by his looks and than by his mannerisms.

He turned eyes daily, it was so long he found himself almost not caring by now.

Successful, working hard, kind when it fitted him.

Striving to bestow what he got to unfortunate souls if he could.

He cut a figure so clever and handsomely took the rewards into his high castle.

One day his world made of truths clear as day cracked in the middle like a mirror too heavy for its frame.

That world tilted, changing its reflected view.

He tried to straighten it but he couldn’t remember what it looked like before.

The halved surface tricked him, blinding burning destroying.

Cease your ascent for it is as vain and futile as your looks.

The mirror said through the crack.

You shall never again compare to the little tin soldier you were.

Ancient weary eyes looking at you from a youthful face.

As old as you feel, bones creaking and all.

A bed too small to lay on, midnight noon sweltering outside.

Heavy music from static-laden speakers, music so old no-one remembers it.

You don’t even remember when or where you met him, just the look in his eyes.

The too old holey t-shirt, the battered leather jacket and scuffed doctor martens.

Not uttering a word, laying there.

And every year past seems longer than ever watching those eyes dilating.

Future remains beyond, full of things you’ll never know until it’s their time.

The record’s playing, the air is still.

The wolf in your bed hums, as meek as a lamb.

As the sun scorches a thousand licking flames.

“Your eyes are blue, very odd.”

“Still blue? I thought not.”

“Very blue. How come?”

Lick your lips, no sweat over your upper lip, and smile.

“I was born with them.”

Somewhere a hammond is playing and the spirit soars.

Never will you learn how young is he in his old years.

Until you’ll be shown.

There are times I scream while driving.
The need overpowers all my common manners, overpowers the eight Kenwood speakers audio system.
The Chevrolet purrs under my feet in a primal answer to the anger.
Because it’s a long while ago I took my loved bike for a ride.
I had enough of about everything currently around me.
I’m itching for a fight.
La valvola di sfogo diventa l’umido nastro nero illuminato dai fari lunghi della mia tesora.
We run like bullets.
The soft mist lacerated by the sheer force of the engine as the speed goes up.
Me smiling when the indicator hits the two-hundred mark and the only thing i hear is the roar.
I think I shall be home before breakfast Ti, remember to add a cup for me, please.

Why does my heartbeat feel like a speaker?
Feeding back…
Repeater, repeater!

Certe volte sento il tempo…un po’ come in questi ultimi 4 giorni fra Settembre e Ottobre…

Divento schiva in estremo bisogno di un silenzio assoluto.

Del movimento ritmico delle mie gambe sui pedali della mountain bike e del mio respiro che inizia a bruciarmi nella gola a causa del primo freddo.

Le gambe che sembrano non reggermi e tremano per lo sforzo, lo sforzo della mia testardaggine perché *porco cane* io non mollo mai.

Il sole che si nasconde sopra il mio capo dietro un mare d’umidità.

Ancora un po’ e poi…inverno, tetti bianchi di brina ed il cielo che diventa lo specchio, ancora una volta.

Ti questo mio bisogno di aria credo che lo comprenda solo in parte.

Vorrebbe venire con me nelle mie sortite su due ruote, riuscirebbe anche a starmi dietro ma…

…ci sono cose che preferisco fare da sola.

…pensieri che in un determinato periodo dell’anno germogliano avvelenando l’aria che ho intorno.

…momenti in cui dai miei soliti 20 l’ora passo ai 35 e la strada brucia sotto di me.

Ti oggi mi ha tenuto il muso, io gli ho sorriso.

Non tutto può essere perfetto in Paradise.

Domani è un altro giorno.

Ed Ottobre è arrivato.

Most days I like my poisons.
My ire, my quick reasoning and my need for climbing.
The almost spasmodic desire to smoke when I stopped ten years ago.
Other times I just take off on my bike and say goodbye for the whole day.
I choose where I want to be.
Be it inside a warehouse full to the brim, an old library, in the middle of a lonesome street or sitting for a full afternoon in a coffee shop, thinking ad musing over the mug.

I find pressing the ‘pause’ button is good sometimes.

Reallign priorities, discard idiocies, taking up new lines of thought.
Finding freedom from the routine you chose.
New paths.
Reaching the stars.

non est ad astra mollis e terris via


Sono due mesi che ci provo…

Ormai la voglia di prendere a testate la tastiera è imponente.

Ho – udite udite – un trequel da scrivere, uno show must go on che prevede continui colpi apoplettici e urla isteriche di ‘Io ti uccido, Hermy. Marca le mie parole!’

Sapete qual’è il problema?

Sta nella mia testa, ci ha messo le radici quello schifoso!

Non ho tutta la trama davanti ma qualcosa sì, più che abbastanza per mettere giù una base e sapere in bene o in male dove mi porto…manca il titolo ma la colonna sonora è ricca, i moodboards stanno superando la mia immaginazione, ho fatto tutte le ricerche del caso su wiki, Google Earth ecc…

L’unica cosa che riesco a fare è scrivere al massimo un paragrafo per volta e nemmeno tanto corretto in italiano…

Sono disperata…



Apparently I wrote about something already existing in the realm of touch…
Linds suffers from lack of touch and the definition is quite true and frightening eye-opening in his case.

Touch starvation is actually a thing. The term for it that’s emerging in medical/psych circles is “skin hunger”. We as humans are meant to be much more social- and especially physically social – than we actually are, and Americans in particular are often touch starved because the casual, platonic contact that often happens between friends in other places just. Does not happen here.

There’s a really Puritan idea that’s pervaded our culture, that touch and sex are inherently linked, and it’s doing us a massive disservice. Touch is incredibly important for humans- hugs reduce blood pressure, cuddling releases oxytocin, and babies will straight up DIE without being touched enough because the stimulation releases hormones that are integral to their healthy development.

We were never meant to hold one another at arm’s length, and if you feel you need physical contact, don’t be afraid to ask for it! Hug your mom. Cuddle a friend on the couch. Ask.
There’s a good chance that they need contact just as much as you do.

Because Linds was never held in the arms of his mother and – in a sterile environment such as an orphanage – there is no space to give affection to all.
Linds lives in the shadow of its ghosts and I could almost pinpoint with certainty the moment in his life when he realizes that the touch of someone can happen and he discovers the hunger for it.
He doesn’t expressly like touch but turns out to be dependent from it and has the knowledge that touch is not necessarily tied to the deepest feelings.

If we take as true the statements above is incredibly sad to think that ‘his touch rations’ are derived mainly from encounters with people who do not form any deep imprint in his life.
I shudder at the part

babies will straight up DIE without being touched enough because the stimulation releases hormones that are integral to their healthy development’

Somehow I created a ‘monster’…in fact Linds survives his infancy alone with the help (damnation?) of his own IQ.
There’s acually a place in ASTTL, in the very early chapters were in a flashback Linds says ‘Since then, the brat was dead.  And basically I think he had never been born.’
My skin is actually crawling now the more I think about the internal layered structure of his psyche.
As a baby his thoughts were already complex enough to instinctually understand the magnitude of betrayal he was victim of.
Linds could have died not from frostbite but for heartbreak.
He could have stopped fighting for his life.
He choosed not to.
He is strong enough as a ‘brat’ to say on his own: ‘Fuck YOU! I’m going to live, to thrive, to suffer AND rise from the mud.’

And now I see him with new eyes and a newfound love…as someone would say GO LINDOR! LoL


I used to be a strange child.

In the summers I looked at the landscape under the scorching sun from the shadows.

In winter I read endless books about beautiful days, my feet tucked between the bed and the heater to stave off the cold. Often I was bored to tears by the longest talks between brothers and sisters on Sundays.

Spring was just a glimmer of dry cerulean sky.

Autumn was the time of the year I never step foot out due to the rain so I read, there was little else to be done.

Always secluded in a big quadrilater of green grass, closed by tall walls and a heavy iron gate. I rarely played with someone ‘cause they were no other children my age and I was forbidden to go out.

I read several hours a day, and I dreamed vivid dreams.

I never felt alone in my world.

I actually started to see other children only at five years old and my seclusion showed: I was not capable of instaurate friendships, I did not understand a inch of what the other children thought (and I came to the conclusion pretty soon that children my age did not think at all)

I was an introvert to the highest degree.

So I became an extrovert to not feel different and that’s what caused the “Tendencies to be a leader” note of the teachers in first grade. The leader was not me, but I could act pretty well the role for five hours a day.

Still I never really connected with people my age, it was a rarity to invite someone home or go play with other children.

Sometimes when someone came to my house to play I had to put a straight face and play with them but after a while I just stopped to be responsive and dismissed them to their own world, bored to death.

This cycle never really stopped I just ceased the extrovert persona at twelve when I understood there was no point in stressing.

I was different, end of story.

I loathe to have friendships now. They never did me any good or be useful in any way.

The only real delight to me is putting my thoughts on paper with the clarity of silence.

A pleasure greater than this I honestly still don’t know.

A summary of yesterday night…

When plot lines become too many…
I get all kinds of ‘Ohhh, yes, now THIS, Check, that’s done, this one for later’
Then you feel it’s time to close a chapter and…

1.00 AM

2.00 AM

3.00 AM


I think I dropped my brain somewhere between the first 1.000 digits…

…chapter is 6.000+…

And the last update has been almost a month ago…

And then I ask myself the fatidic question when I see the grammar…
Have I been drinking while writing?
Nope, no…whenever?!

“Sometimes I write drunk and revise sober, and sometimes I write sober and revise drunk. But you have to have both elements in creation — the Apollonian and the Dionysian, or spontaneity and restraint, emotion and discipline.”

Dylan Thomas in “Reuben, Reuben” 1964 @ Peter De Vries

Linds with the grin/Alan is so good:

Me, searching for the whiskey stash:

This tale ends with me smashing head first into the keyboard and finding myself with a black eye the morning after…explain that to people who know you without sounding completely out of your mind.


[Little disclaimer: This post is one of my poor comic reliefs, no GIF is mine so don’t flame!]

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