Music: Louis Armstrong, Because of you. Outside the sky is white in the background and clad in grey blue skeins, the city seems to hide and seek behind the squared pierced walls, quiet before the offer of the night, before every light goes on. My homely frustration grows as the world gets nearer my reach, and I wonder, is there any way out or in. I like the chimneys over that roof, I also think, which are in a cluster and all different and undoubtely a sign of the Life going on at the other end of the pipes.
Libi is patiently waiting for me to agree to watch that movie with her for her dissertation and I just can't come out with anymore excuses. In my pockets, my longing for when I lived in Venice is just getting out of hand, I think.

(in picture: thoughts of the whaled-head man, continued, detail)

What was he doing sealed in at home, the person he lived with was left to wonder, whether he was bound to step out of the house again or just refuse to get out forever. Still this cohabitant, host and lover who considered herself not different from a wife, would ask him nothing, just getting the groceries from the outside world was enough, heavy bundles of bottles and news about traffic and neighbours, projects about dinner, looking at him suspiciosly and tenderly, his silent grotesque mug, his rare important smiles or warm caresses, his small drawings taped to the white furniture. I wonder what's he thinking all the time, she would think looking at him, and, What if I have nothing to say, he would think not looking at her.

It would come the distraught sex, ritually violent or intimidating or absent-minded, promise of a better sex to come. Sex would make them joyful at the moment, more for being there again than for the pleasure, which had an end from which they could handle it. Or would she listen to his strained voice from the other room, singing with the old guitar patched up at the bottom, for the sake of nothing but witnessing the rugged, romantic inadequacy of the voice? Would you like to have a beer at the table? were the words she thought to say, Will we go to Prague for my birthday? Can I take a shower, don't you need the bathroom?

Alone in the night, he would look at the computer screen desperately, his mind blank, the slight accented depth of the frames, its weft of words and pictures suddenly reduced to a bidimensional pile of garbage to empty from the desktop. Who am I kidding, his thought: since this life is going nowhere, and my dreams are worn out, washed out, dwarfed. Me turning off the phone, me incapable of honest love, me ready to leave or coward enough to stay.

Alone in the bed she would be near to fall asleep, switching off the light she could see against the window the orange curtain she sewed coiled aside, and a solitary star roaming into the hazy violet dark field over the city, it's "my star" that looks at me, every night before I sleep, her thought: he's not here next to me, in the bed, because he's bored by me, I don't give him enough, I am not smart enough, I am not brave enough. But I know how to be serene, how to give him pleasure, how to make his mind cloudless, I wish this was enough, let it be enough.

And he was thinking, will this showing off to strangers instead, this perverse blogging, solidify, give shape? His thought: shall I hope in this trick too?

But those were only thoughts, not to affect the night.

(In picture: thoughts of the whaled-head man, detail, draft)

The year when it snowed in June, when World Poulation reached eight billions, when Italian Government had to ration Energy, when the Man got to the Moon again, the year when it rained all year long, and the Perpetual Greyness of the sky spreaded to leaves, to passerbys' faces, to cars chromes. The year when Antarctica extended itself up to New Zeland, the magnetic poles were inverted, the Amazons turned into a bizarre pattern of deserts and woods, Venice melted in the mud of the laguna. The year when Record Labels ceased to print CDs, Publishing Houses to print books, movie theaters to exist, restaurants to stay open in the nighttime, trams to be public, swimming pools to be public, cars to be used to go to work, clothes to be dyed, hair to grow luxuriantly (barely surviving on the heads). The year you came back from camping tanned and smiling, you had two white plastic containers with you collected from some place on some beach, and you proudly showed them to me, saying: "dad, but, are they ancient?"

(continue to part two)

Outside is the strongest wind, shaking and scattering and slamming through the sun ablazing, and I am dying for a walk into it all, not being here reading about fucking hymenoplasty surgery and Italy seventh in Europe for murders and all, or monday we'll be six billions and a half on our round blue earth and the christmas tree lightened up or all the Plasma TVs underneath. The most popular items list on the Amazon makes me vant to vomit on the keyboard of my 2002 notebook for good.
I wonder why wearing mountain boots for a walk in the neighbourhood makes me feel more receptive or unchained, how ridiculous, and the obsession I have with the idea of gettin' in touch with my father for christmas, didn't see him in twelve months, I'd say to him reproaching a son is like reproaching toothache, it makes no sense, I spoke, go.
I'm not going out just because I know I'm too tired for this after the n^th too long staying up fatigue and I don't want to go to bed because my wake/sleep cycles are still there to be studied by some team of scientist miners - or magic rebus solvers. Meanwhile I made this sketch out of an elaborate phone call and didn't know when to stop. I want to be looked into the eyes now but she's not here.

Music: none. About to leave for a few days, as I pack and silently regret of not having the right words to tell I'm not going away with another woman on a romantic trip, even though I do am going considering I won't even manage to stop for a few hours to a girlfriend's house somewhere she doesn't know of, she falls asleep, lightly snoring under the suffuse light of the IKEA aluminum pinchable lamp.
Her sleep calms me down. After any sleep, as we awake, comes that solitude. It's not me, I speculate, who will give it to you.
I'll be back.

Music: Alfred Deller, O Ravishing Delight. Another incredible voice. My feelings towards myself worsen day by day. It must be all that regret I have because of my scattered dispersed family. Or the undistinguishable throng were the loves of my life fall. But it's not conscious. Drawing for five minutes helps me to sense I'm real. The sheet changed. Deller pervades my hearing. Proposition: masturbate less, love her more. You punished her enough already.

Music: none. I let the pen pull me around the A4 sheet, all it ever does is faces, smirks, grimaces and glances of complete careless strangers, the most unknown people I could met. Who are they? Where do they come from?