Over the photograph of the whole beach (the abandoned amusement park behind), a lonely bird. The next photograph shows the bird, white and black, flying, spread wings, such a seabird, a postcard of a living creature. My friend shows me the photograph, one he took knowing I’d see it, knowing I’d know what the bird, its colours, the closed beak mean, its shape cut against the grey sky, all the bloody melancholy we do share.

Giving, I think the poet meant, without expecting anything. Not even a response. A line would be enough. Like an emergency measure. Throwing a message (you know: in a bottle). How quiet, sometimes, the sea.

Gloomy day. Ceaseless rain. Walk like a blue ghost, covered in a poncho: it makes you look like a tired, retired superhero. The rabbits must be all hiding underground: they know better. I go from one concrete building to the other, change titillating screens a million times. The post office makes me wait and 68p go away on a piece of paper with the face of a future king. The red totem is there, still, opening its mouth. It devours.

tranquilo , remember two parallel lines get together in the infinite.

I wonder if everytime someone dies there are minimal, hyper-brief instants of micro-sadness in all the nights of the world. Most of the times, of course, we don’t even realize, but some other times, the next morning, we may be able to understand that little unexplained sigh, that unseen flashing in the sky the night before.