[To mark the beginning]
It looks like a black line, rising at dusk. A sharp purple-grey cloud that becomes obscure and then grows endlessly. While it rises, the sky – with all its stars - begins to darken in my sight. Picture it! It is as if someone – which I never knew - has abruptly rang my bell, warning me that soon I’m going to get lost, drifting away for this oppressive silence that lasts inside myself forever. A silence always equal to itself, although capable to change the surface in various different ways. A silence ingrained into this past of mine that seems to me so strange, so vague. Between reality and me there is a veil that my thoughts cannot tear apart. Will you simply think at yourself? Just yourself, if only for a second.
[Living together with others]
Someone says that anything is transcendental and it is more or less real, just like reality - rainbows, seas, continents, mountains as well as every single being, every single animal, every single object.  Although many times I feel like I am dying, I still continue to ask from Art a way to reveal my soul to me. So my mind can freeze for a moment while it understands that I, actually, I exist for real, that I’m truly made of flesh, nerves, blood, energy. Sometimes my lips whisper a love song, or I teardrop instinctually, crying for someone I do not know yet. Are we really able to love with that kind of love we really need and wish for ourselves?
[Meanings and quest]
I guess I would be quite happy if I could blow away every single one of my thoughts, every single motion, in order to let myself drown deeper and deeper in an empty life, just ordinary: prosaic work and no knowledge at all. Stupidly, if not shabbily joyful, I would drink the water of this human existence without asking where it is its source. Sometimes, I wonder if happiness exists only for those who know that they can no longer feel it. When I come to the mystery, and I understand it, I’m frightened. Are you? No, art can’t speak about itself, at least not this particular form of art which you feel is yours and you nourish through. Nevertheless, I ask you not to doubt it. Sometimes, in your eyes, it might seem too much, or not enough at all. I ask you at least not to doubt your suffering, because you will suffer much more and in vain, if one day you’ll realize that you doubt it.
[Different sentiments]
You can feel love for someone without being there. Without uttering a single word. During your day, you may pronounce nonsensical sentences (everybody does it): in those moments you know you forget yourself and, even if you are going to talk with someone about your art, or just to yourself, you probably may even not remember how much you love it. So, if you’re faithful to your statement or, you have decided it to break it, it’s all right as well: rather then speak of anything, just tell about nothing or don’t. When you’ll see a work of yours after years, you will not know anymore who you were and where and, it could comes that you’ll miss yourself too.
[Why are you so]
How can you love being so far and, to be glad only by thinking to be arrived when someone is not arrived yet? Do you have a secret? Don’t you want to share it? Be confident. You have always known everything about yourself, although you do not know anything yet. If you’ll tell your secrets, you will understand them. We pray, we love, we cheat, we confuse ourselves, we think, we feel, we warn, we make illusions, we dream for a number of infinite times. Everything we do is in order to help us forget - or bless - our name, cast a spell, look for happiness. And if one day you’ll cry once more, caught by the muddy spirals of sadness, you can still decide to share your sorrows with that discipline that you see somehow magic. Be shy, but not indifferent. Shiver, tremble or scream your feelings and thoughts like a fire that shines through the night, before it dies down. Meet in the chaos. Shoot a flash to enlighten your path in most truly complete human way. Be wrong, never banal.