S. is Sara and she is Sirius Black, Rocco's ward, protector of prisoners. She is everything and nothing. She is a delicate and tender fanatic of potatoes. She is a writer. Attends high school with little enthusiasm but achieves good enough results that are almost embarrassing for a poorly reputed classical high school. In constant expressive delirium, she sees cinema as a rediscovery of art and its very future. Reaching thirty is all she desires from her tomorrow. In three years she will finally leave her desk in the cozy corner and her parents' house to go to Rome and become a pop idol, fulfilling the dreams of Oscar Wilde, Briab Slade, Curt Wide, and Arthur Stuart. At twenty, she hopes to publish a perfect novel, to spend her last decade immersed in the most enticing sins. She will die in New Zealand and will be buried at Père-Lachaise, in Paris, alongside Proust and - of course - Oscar Wilde. She believes in commas and swears it twice, in God Brian Molko, in Banana Pajamas, and in Velvet Goldmine. She cares for her friends and trusts them only when sober. Sometimes, when she's with them, she even manages to feel normal. When she's drunk, she is shameless and frivolous and can say anything while maintaining the most serious expression.
The perfection moves her, beauty consoles her, mediocrity saddens her, and vulgarity shocks and fascinates her. She knows what happiness is: she felt it on her skin. Now she is empty to the point of losing.
Greet with joy!
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