Avion Travel
Storia d'Amore

Sound of drums. Low, muffled. Then a guitar. The attack is almost like a Neapolitan pizzica, it reminds me of the heat, the smell of salt... what else? "On the beach, I acted like a clown to show off before her eyes".

I like to think of a not very crowded beach, with very white sand. I like to think of the years when everything was reborn, and girls wore big sunglasses. There is a quite strong sun but the wind softens its rays. The guitar returns. The voice is nothing but the obvious translation of the music: the plucked strings pluck the interested party, her husband. The music investigates, mocks, mixes irony with melancholy, satisfaction with desire: "you should have figured that sooner or later she would leave you", and the drums insist "you married her knowing that she, knowing that she was crazy for me". The music thinks, imagines, dreams. Like a man alone on a stage in an empty theater, the voice gets lost in the dream. It is carried by a gentle saxophone that seems to play from far away. It floats as if on a magic carpet. And reality melts away.

Now I like to think of a room as rooms were two hundred years ago. There is a large white bed and the curtains flutter, revealing a small balcony illuminated by the moon. Everything seems governed by a silent law, which cannot be broken. And the guitar returns to mark her movements. I can't resist. "And I looked at her all". It is a beauty I cannot imagine: "She seemed like an angel!". Emotions rise. Heartbeats are countless. The chest is about to explode. It's an orgy of sensations. A mischievous piano stays on the high notes, taking you by the hand and dragging you into a rhythm that is now irresistible. And the finale: an orgasm of pleasure. It's a contagious love, a force much stronger than any drug, a screaming contrast. "She loved me, she hated me, she loved me, she hated me, she was against me". And I can't resist, I don't want to hold back. For a moment the guitar slows her gestures, as if to make a statue out of her, a Venus. Then the piano returns, like an unstoppable wave of sex that intoxicates you to the point of madness... "She told me: I am yours, and in the dream, I kissed her". New orgasm. New explosion of pleasure.

A song. In the end, just music. A poem. A bit of theater.