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Little Song


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"Man's loneliness passes through the sound that accompanies him in thoughts, in the interpretation that it makes of his life, passes through a small song repeated endlessly, which becomes sound in silence, perfume.

A man in his nest, time passes, without being able to get out of his deep bond with it, a living and waiting space.

In his hands he holds a bunch of roses, (I only have flowers with me ...) now dry from the time he has crossed them, only his right hand is free, to touch the perimeter of the two windows from where he observes the world, the left hand always careful not to drop the red roses. Who are these roses for? (on the table, the vase where stagnant water now dominates the very scent of the flowers; a cup of coffee and a cigarette between the fingers of my hand).

The glass balls, on the ground, continuously rotated so as not to stop time; time cannot stop, the wait would cease.

Black umbrellas like people, in the quiet courtyard, appear and disappear; people and umbrellas, everyone is turned around, umbrellas do not protect against water, people do not listen to other people. Everyone is alone in his world, where the roses grow, the red ones, which I took with me ”.

Meo Fusciuni