the book started with a rough, but defining vision of himself:

"he was somewhere, he had come back through vast regions from nowhere; there was the certitude of an infinitive sadness at the core of his consciousness, but the sadness was reassuring, because it alone was familiar."

("The Sheltering Sky" by Paul Bowles)

he hasn't read Bowles yet. he felt home though. he felt waking up from a long shadowed dream. But most of all, he felt a travel, even if it would mean just reading. Living others' dreams, driving through unfeasible motorways of cloudy dreams. he felt arriving to himself, building small tents of unpredictable refuge, without realising he was the only lonely refugee there... a loner with himself, embracing soundless violins, unable to fiddle nomore, enraging deaf howls to disappearing moons...

no light for me. no light for us...

"i know, it doesn't silence anyone
so what could anyone say
there's been but two meanings in our lives:
what you want and what i can't hide"

(la rocca- goodnight)

goodnight... and good luck.