Hesitant fingers searching for the skin, little girl, among the folds of solitude, on the aged profiles of collective morals, on the face of silent, indecipherable remorse. At the first lights, even after, when the charm has faded, awkward images undress a new body, desires recompose the nauseating pauses of silence and burden with rain the weary vertices of reason with words mutilated by the daily insults, hurled onto the surface of the nocturnal waits.

The lying bosoms of the forefathers, the greedy call of deceptions, the smiles given for old rags on the hips, and the violent and desolate shelters for emotions never experienced hammering the oppressive darkness of anxiety onto the secretion of the fleshy wounds, on the face of hideous butterflies, on the aged games in the callous hands of hairy females.
Alluring in the creases of the lips, seldom still, unperceivable and delicate, small yeses!, rushing and sharp, clashing and repeating rolling in the shoulder bag of the abandoned companion, when, powerless to escape the papier-mâché cage of the hyenas, overcome by tiredness, he invites the brass basses of the band to strike up the march on the dominant octaves of the nos!, dry, intolerant, lacerating, insensitive to suffering and pain.

"Maggie: E= how do you see me? (And greater than herself, an explosion) Why … tell the truth … were you not a little ashamed of me?
Quentin: I saw how much you suffered and such suffering melts all shame.
Maggie: So it is true, you were ashamed of me!".

Norma and Marilyn!

"I am more than two: I am many people. Sometimes these people frighten me. I wish I were just myself! Once I was convinced I was going crazy, but then I discovered that certain people I admired were the same as me …
It is not Marilyn Monroe who is in the bath, it is Norma Jean. I am offering Norma Jean first-class treatment, something unusual: normally she had to wash in water that had already been used by seven or eight people. But now she can have a bath in water that is as crystalline and clear as glass … Now people scramble to see me, but I remember the time when I was unwanted.

All those times nobody wanted to see the little Cinderella Norma Jean, not even her mother".

Every time.

In Los Angeles and in Hollywood, the illusions in the fifties wait for every person's own uncertain icon of success to fall, after selling the dress of haruspex, and tearing off the laurel and crown. Architectures designed in haste and fluorescent lanes for vitrified words and for dreams in the suitcase of the star seller. Where gold touches the opulence of the copper safes, with the cells decorated, and the last remaining canes and nettles burnt.

Mass magic and fabulating productions with crystal eyes, push towards the wild grasp, with anxieties charged and feathers, evoked and arranged in order of grades of truth. Quick glances on the neck of the movie camera, and the blinding pallor of the white lights of the footlights and films on vertical tin rods for the big screens. Discharges, temporary, instable, like the bones of pre-history, when the earth is cold and the blood chills limbs on the craters. Tied, agitated, excited like killer whales waiting for dolphins, drunk with jealousy. "Hollywood is a place where they pay you a thousand dollars for a kiss and fifty cents for your soul. I know this well because I refused the first offer quite often and my soul is not for sale".

Opaque and irreducible, the emptiness, frothy, viscid, porous, closing the spaces to possible resistance, lacerating the veils of the mind, dispersing thick blankets of boredom, scratching hopes, plagiarizing innocent hours. For the sails of an imprudent destiny, origin and unity burn, when the split has been sewn up, the multiplication swallowed up, and the wisdom of the colours gone, before the horizon, with the forms of alternate evanescences, between the scenes of the last comedy with shadows of blind upside down acrobats on the mocking trapezes of fate.

With affections glued onto the table of memories and with dolls that laugh without plaits and petticoats!

And in the hours changing to grey, the cuts of crystal weep for the flower, because ancient is, the bare step of nostalgia.