15 February 2012
In this cage of millenary rules, orders and wisdom, Breathing was writing songs during the long winter nights, playing with words.
Sometimes I glanced at the moorland, my old bones desired ignis fatuus as my eyes could not survive the glare of stars.
This is how I died, drowning in ink, wrinkles and regret in my little heart, begging for warm lights on soil, the very place where tyranny was stealing our lives. But I was not ready for the sky, I wasn't.
Fuoco Fatuo • Opuss № I