Klimt1918
 "Just in case we'll never meet again"
(Soundtrack for the cassette generation)

'But sitting and musing here,
I picture to myself interminable spaces beyond the hedge,
silences beyond the human grasp,
and stillness so profound that my heart is almost frightened'.

:::  verses taken from The Infinite, by Giacomo Leopardi  :::

In the basement. A neon sun over the head. The blue light makes the skin sallow and darkens the eyes. The air is the same that you breathed yourself. Equal the consistence of boredom, endurance and calm. But you're elsewhere, somewhere, on a plane drawing white lines in the sky. You're an arrow going away, into the frozen clouds. It's a silent escape you're watering down into sleep, far away from thoughts, towards a new life. Now your eyes are closed. I imagine 'em. The bended head, lips closed. Thoughts armonized to the rarefying of air and senses.

I look at my hands, still smelling of soil and grass. On these cheeks the dew has made some grooves. Night has not been night, but only wait. Just tension, just longing to swallow one by one dark thoughts and birds which kept me company. When the dawn is over, under the blinds; dust that drew whirls into the rays of sun. Alone and tired. Mosquitos stuck on me, the noise of their stings came out of my flesh. I left 'em alone just like I was truly sleeping. ''Bleed me, bites me'', I told 'em with a thin voice. ''Because this is not a body anymore, what's running through my veins is not life anymore''.
Then the daily actions. Standing up, barefoot in the kitchen, cold milk, cookies and happiness drowned, freezing shower to drive sleep that there's not been away.

The smell of washing on, clothes worn with indifference, car engine, air from the windows, park, stairs, neon, basement. I sign on the register of attendances. Each day there's something different in my handwriting. It's a shudder that spaces the letters making 'em invalid and fragile. It's your breath on my mouth that I miss, it's your eyes that do not look at me anymore. Tidy steps up to my place. Gentle and peaceful faces fixed in front of the screens. Someone smiles, some not. There's a silent minority who knows everything. You're witness of the silent hours coming. You won't offended if today I'm not particularly hearty, if I play loud music for trying not to hear you laughing. You'll understand this silence and this mouth perfectly horizontal. 

I'm elsewhere, but these fingers will keep on writing on a keyboard, my mouth will talk on the phone with unknown and indifferent people. My eyes will pluck up courage and will drown in the intense blue of the screensaver and now and then will try finding somewhere that hidden sky, which I miss, that is not possible to see from here below. It's only extracts which flow down from the sewery wastes. I can see them, from below the gratings, on the corner of those windows. It's too little to pretend in the thought of you, in your sleepy glances. I'd like that mosaic of clouds was crossed even for just a while by the white line of your plane. I'd have something to share.

Later, minutes of pause, cicadas which still hypnotize, climbed on the trees. Quick steps, beyond the road, in that garden where we kissed adding no words. Under a tree, where our footprints in the ground are still kept. Above there are clouds, there's the skies and the aggressive sun of September. The sky is crossed by a tenth of airplanes lines. Too many to choose one and imagining is yours. So I prefer staying in the shade to hear the empty stomach fading. There are no words and there won't be for quite a long time. A bastard by the clumsy look runs at breakneck speed behind a frayed tennis ball, an old man picks big leaves of wild beet greens and put 'em in a blue bag. He makes wave to me. Between his fingers holds a kitchen knife. I return the greeting cracking a smile. Park ways are wounds of reddish soil in the grass. I follow one of these roads without convinction, up to the street. Then the shadowy asphalt with cars parked by herringbone. Still cicadas and again plentiful portions of sky before coming back. The threshold is fresh. Inside it's wintry.

I go downstairs with eyes closed, slowly. One step after another, to the end, into the gullet of the building. I'm a distant figure disappearing in the humanity pressed underground and wet by neon. You can recognize me because of the hand which I keep firm on the forehead. All the rest is confused order, simple shapes, dreams slowly dying, without makin' noise. Come looking for me, if you want. I'm there at the end, near the wall. My eyes plucked up courage, these fingers are already writing on a keyboard, my mouth talks on the phone with unknown people. You'll understand this smile o' mine just beckoned.
I'm elsewhere.
I'm elsewhere.
It's extracts flowing down from the sewery wastes. It's a sky crossed by a tenth of air lines. It's the love underground, with the heart of an ant which swarms and dreams endless spaces. Come lookin' for me. You'll be witness of the silent hours coming.