So I fantasize that I receive the emails I am waiting for, open them, give a look at them, very fast, jumping from one line to the other (certain words appearing as in bold, or as slightly larger than the other words). Then I put the emails away -- without actually reading them from start to end, instead going to bed, finally sleeping knowing that waking up the next day won't be a disappointment or a torment. I think we have these dreams (with the classic open eyes) because we dream to do good to ourselves-- And I remember all the times I did that, even as a kid: with letters my mother wrote, or my father, my brother. Letters girlfriends wrote, that went in the drawer without being read until later. But inexactly now it feels like I never waited for those.

-- In picture, above: magic episodes of traveling, from the museum of anthropology, Ciudad de Mexico.

...there are still two weeks left, but, you know.

Libi I'm trying to write you this letter though I'm no good at it. I always worry that what I'm going to write in the letters will haunt me later on for some reason. Not that I have anything special to write you about. Anything you can't imagine by yourself probably.
So I am leaving, as you know (do'h). Of course I'll miss you Libi. I'll miss your eyes so intense and sweet when we hold each other, your arms when we fall asleep together, your cheering voice as you enter the door, noises of you in the kitchen, in the bathroom, out on the yellow terrace talking to the neighbor's cat. I'll miss our clothes scattered all over the apartment, your round breast, the way you give me, I'll miss you at night, when I'm awake and I hear your soft snoring coming from the other room, that always made me warm, our moments of bravery with the sex, our plans for dinner every night, the contorted and lengthy summaries of the movies you saw. I'll miss not seeing our plants flourishing this spring or getting sick. Even that corny french music all in minor key you always want to listen to. I'll miss hearing of your mother's cat, whom you nicknamed with the same nickname you gave me. I'll miss the countless ways you found to make me feel not guilty, of being alive, of being what I was, of not always doing the right thing. I always tried to protect you but if I succeeded at lengths it only was because you needed so little. Manifested so little. See, I know that.
I'll leave and miss the warm love that my leaving triggered from somewhere inside ourselves, even if it was forced out somehow.
You know that I'll be away for three months, although I am not so sure it will be three months, maybe it will be more, or less. I want you to be strong and go on with everything because I'll be back anyway. I wish I was leaving you with someone else like a child or a pet. But our lives are still important to take care of if we part. And if I am not coming back, because I die or something, please know that the days were all true, all true. True like fear, like illness, like lust, like hunger, like all that I postponed waiting to find the courage to give more to you. True when I ran away from you, true when I came back, true when I said I was sorry. Sometimes I wondered whether it was true or not, but what is true? Is it a lie to think that it's true all that we can't rationalize? And if I really die or something keep my relatives away from my stuff if you can, except maybe the pictures, and destroy the blog please. The password is written under the drawer of the green table (...)

(...) I'm too unhappy to write, to answer to anyone. It is not the effort to put sentences together, but the idea to send and to give, that's too tiring a thought. I don't know what it is. I have no voices in my head --only a dull annoying mess without a shape... wish to be put to sleep for good--

I got your message. "Hi, how are you doing?" you wrote. "Here it's working to the bitter end. I am not particularly happy but I'm living in a calm state, of physical and psychical silence --which I find enchanting. I'm sending you a kiss even though, harshly said, this place is eradicating any form of affection from my heart."

Nina I am not interested about what is eradicated from your heart.... or what not. How can I tell you this? You're probably too young and unexperienced to know that the heart isn't a patch of earth from where you "eradicate" stuff... nothing is ever eradicated.
Maybe the heart is a blackboard badly cleaned by a dusty eraser... how about that? All that has been removed can be written again, in a jiffy, sometimes the trace of it is still visible beneath the whitish hand-made curves of pulverized chalk, if only you look close enough, if only the light in the room is right.

I never cared much for the declarations of un-love (de-love) just as I never really minded the declarations of love... What's a declaration for? Illusions of control... (So you're over me? When were you under me?)
It was a long ago that I heard from a girl the words of love for the first time -- we were hugged kissing on a green bench in some public garden in the city, the girl's brown eyes were wide open on me.... all I could see and think was that she was all in her eyes looking at me, and that she was waiting for an answer I had to give. "Love is in the eyes of a girl". The answer had to be given. I just wanted to run... I'd still want to run to this day, if it wasn't that I need to be loved.
All I ever cared in my life were the feelings, all kinds of them: I put everything second to the feelings that were felt... including my sanity and my job but the feelings I only cared for were those that cannot be contained into words, and cannot be exchanged like goods or favors-- they are there, in between, and I am here, we are here, they're in between.

Declarations are even less important when you're away, Nina. One sees the real face of the heart when is next to it. Heart isn't a wireless fucking connection from a 12 miles high spying blimp or something-- true we haven't done anything, changed anything to be together because we never wanted to... but if we meet tomorrow, who's to say what's written on it? I know that this doesn't change anything, fuck, who wants to change anything?

I can't talk to Libi and I can't talk with you Nina about what's happening because of all the lies I said, and all things I omitted. Because I don't remember the dates, I don't know who or what came before and I am too ashamed to ask. Yeah I lied to you too, I've been hiding my feelings and I've been unable to share my worries too many times. Always took life from the wrong side (...)

I wish we wouldn't have to write about Berlusconi anymore, but it's impossible... Politically wise, Berlusconi is the equivalent of someone who crashes a party, ruining everyone's business but his own, and who his therefore forever talked about in all the subsequent parties.

This will probably be commented by many Italian bloggers, but, anyway: Apparently, the day before being kicked out of office Berlusconi wrote a letter to all the Heads of State of Europe, to undermine his successor's credibility as his last official act in public office. By doing this, he also undermined the remains of Italian credibility, although that's obviously none of his concerns.
According to L'Espresso, Berlusconi wrote to Blair, Zapatero and co. something like this: "I am going away, but I will be back when the votes will be recounted. I am the one who won the elections, and if I'm going away it's only because of the faulty Italian electoral system."

It must be noted that Berlusconi's government "corrected" the italian electoral system few weeks before the vote, so he can't blame anyone but himself. Also, in the meantime votes have been recounted finding nothing, no Florida case. But that's not the point.
The point is, if Italy was a Democracy, such a thing would not be possible. There would be enough respect for the rules and for the vote to keep one's personal resentment out of the question. But Italy is not a democracy, it is a oligarchy¹, and in the oligarchic mode of rule the going down families are always allowed some little dishonest see-you-later trick.

_{1. I know, I've said that before, what do you want. Everyone has his own obsessions.}