giovedì, marzo 15, 2018


We woke up and reached for the porch. No yawning, no eye-rubbing, no breakfast: we went outside to taste a different air promised by the new lights. In fact, air was not the only thing being different: sky itself was. The next year, on the same day, we toasted with Moet remembering the day it had been. The paramount of stupor we've experienced, carved in our raised eyebrows and painted over our open mouths was not intended to be ever lived by anyone. Yet, we did see the sky that morning and we have dreamed of it even long time after it was passed before our kinky eyes.

Suspance and thrill coated our bodies with the gloomy heat of inevitability. I remember breathing, but I am unsure to have breathen; I recall watching, but I am unsure to have seen.
The longest heartbeat in geological history, and the most crucial experience in our lives: the day the sky presented himself in a momentary, yet inedited, coat of arms.

All its chemical ingredients were layered by density, as if they were never intended to live mixed together to form "air". Nitrogen, Oxygen, Argon and the rest of the bunch were there: as in a weird classroom photo they all were laying next to each other, in unnatural order.

Time passes and control volume fades away, in the dusk of untold days.

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