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Rating: Too emotional. Sensitive. Tender. Tender, I say.
If I had been born eight hundred years ago, along with half a billion friends (roughly), currently engaged as pawns of the world, we would have been wiped out by a simple instinctive headbutt. Not a journalistic impulse but a fatal headbutt on the nose. Deadly.
Instead, eight hundred years have passed like nothing, and in defiance of those who say nothing has changed, I am unjustly alive, despite the definitions. So, I am a man by nature and, today, perhaps also by definition. Once, I would have been born a man by nature and deadman shortly after. I got lucky, I dare say.
Reading a book made of black-and-white sketches lasting two or three pages each, I get overly distracted and transcend the analogies with the present, because although I am carrying on with life, I cannot belong to the present, despite my gratitude towards it. Yes, because the present is better than the past that headbutts me. And even if the most powerful and fun machine that exists is in our heads, my imagination cannot satisfy me when it tries to place me in the future, where even there the definition doesn't offer certainties. But certainty is like water; it is destined to run out, and it is chased as it gradually consumes.
Here, someone started with a title to make two words, a bit like Jarabe De Palo did twenty years later.
I needed something more, Luca, I need it. You understood the sides of the human square well, but you didn't consider that we are concentric cubes, and that doesn't make sense.
I know it doesn't make sense.
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