Suddenly the journey is over and we got home and my tongue turned red and my eyes aint’t dry. I fall back in my beloved country in a sunny day of summer-end and everything is exactly as it was when I left, peaceful and well known, tame. Apart me. Somewhere, not far from here, a beautiful lady is spinning its web, waiting for my voice and I’m yelling towards the sky: I’m here. I’m full of life, full of primal fluid, fool of foolishness ‘cause I’ve seen too many seas in people’s gazes and I’m wider. And I’m wondering to wander, again. Travelling is an ocean that no-one can tell. Now more then ever I can feel as the perfect stranger. That’s why I want to be misunderstood and that’s why I’m not using my language, and I’m sorry. Indeed, telling is not important, no longer, not here in my sweet home, my small town. I can see the time running through my courtyard, writing, looking down the window. The grave is still there. I can hear the echo of the remote land I’ve been. There is no need to explain. You can taste the rain just drinking a drop. You can ride the storm just watching the lightning. Walls of my room are tightening. I’m tiny, and tiny, or the world si getting smaller. Nor my head is getting taller. This place is a weird warm womb. And we, all, walk in the dark.
I ringraziamenti sono dovuti. Ai miei due strepitosi compagni di viaggio, il Matteo Angelino e il Mattia Leonardi, alle loro foto, alle loro parole e alla loro splendida presenza. A coloro i quali ci hanno seguito senza conoscerci di persona. A coloro i quali, letta una pagina o mezza, si sono presto stufati. A coloro i quali ci hanno scritto, consigliato e suggerito. A coloro i quali ci hanno letto nell’ombra. Ma soprattutto, a coloro i quali sono stati con noi con la testa, con la pancia e con il cuore. Questo diario รจ tutto per loro.