Paolo Benvegnù
Earth Hotel

"Make love inside me, so that I can use you..."

What will we do now, Paolo, we who come from Deep Space? What do we want? Refinement that touches the skin only to make it shiver with New Innocence, or no, better flesh and blood? Better the color and pain of the tear that excites, that ravages, letting life that blinds glimpse through, shouting in a shadowless parking lot, or will we prefer then the feeling of cleanliness, easier and more convenient than a room prepared for the next customer? What will we sing in our hotel rooms framed by blurred cameras and credit cards lost at reception? Where will we go Paolo, and where have we been, if we've been, here, before leaving? Will we choose an Aseptic Hotel to rid ourselves of the dirt, the brutality of what, rightly, is not the best part of us, our social condition, class? For that outfit we wore without conviction at a convention of brilliant masks, will we sing a Nuovosonettomaoista, Paolo? Will we imagine ascending, maintaining a distant and balanced point of view, from any Avenida Silencio, to wait our turn, in search of wisdom that withers, bending every single petal of conviction and destroying it in a sea of foreign words to our eyes, uncomprehended? Paolo, will we have the patience to wait in the elevator for the next floor where we will find windows covered with flowers we had dried and left in a vase, for those who would come to find us, and did not? Our ticket bears the inscription "Life," left carelessly under the door, next to the yellow wall, and there is no time to say "Goodbye, goodbye are you too far away?" on any given day. Where will Stefan Zweig hide to escape the fire while subtle life seeks him, and he loses himself? Shall we go see where he went to die, opposed by everyone, forever ignored in the anonymous rooms of this Hotel? What will we do, Paolo, with these words fallen from the typewriters in a poisonous warmth, tonight? And You, Paolo, whom we tried to hold between our fingers, believing we had those bones securely, a flame that seemed perpetual and revolutionary energy, an infinite love in a jar in which we will eventually see an evident expiration date engraved? What will we do with You, Paolo, before feeling divided, or Divisionists? Will the sweet madness remain, devoid of meaning and reason, like Orlando, wandering among the fields inventing the nonexistent in everyday gestures? And will we like it, perhaps, to feel loved even by invisible forces, by the bonds we will forever seek, Paolo, as long as we can breathe? Our Small Urban Pornography, Paolo, which we will call love: repeated violence on our flesh that will never be satisfied, that will die in an illusorily reciprocated desire until it becomes nothing? How will the songwriter of dissonances, scream lullabies that keep us awake, like "Hannah" who instead sleeps, enjoys bliss, and knows no fears? On the roof of this Hotel, Paolo, will we search for clear answers, or will Eternal Glances and Primates be enough? Because we will be crazy, like the child of Nobody who knows where we have hidden all the keys, of all the rooms below us? We who are at the top of the world, Paolo, on terraces of boredom and sometimes sudden elation, with a single glance, a single glimpse of understanding everything, only to blow on the burnt wings, too late from a sky from which you can only glimpse and fall. "Yet it's all true, even if there's nothing. Yet it's all true."

Is this so, Paolo? Is it?

The bewilderment in a moment of silence and then the joy of a sublime record restarting in the player.