Silence all around. You stand and stare the street light up there, your new god made of electricity, a new religion made of neutrons and protons and memories.
You stand and stare.
You are alone but you are not alone there.
There is a noise, it is a window that is being closed, an old wooden window of an old country house. The house is bad painted with a torbid grey in which only vanished hopes can reflect in.
Inside of you, silent images begin to jump in your lungs. You cough. Breath. You cough harder.
Visions of a red lost chair in the middle of nothing. You loved that chair, and you love the man who sit on it. He's like an hologram of your expectations, he's there but he's not. He could.
Hide, elope, escape, knee.
You are fighting on a sunday morning. it is rainy outside and the air smells sweet. Your words are just whispers under a sheet.
Who are you, errating wind and why are you offering marmelade to me. Marmelade of asphalt and dry apples.
Sleep under the lamp, beg it to pass a safety night, pray the sky not to vanish, not tonight.
PS. this is a work-in-progress project in collaboration with a contemporary dancer, Elena Silvestri.
I'd love to say thank you to her because without her i would never understand what is the meaning of dance.