I remember, remember going home from yours. Alone, afraid of getting lost on the unknown and familiar way.
I remember the stupid grin that must have garnished my face, the singing in my head, your fawn-like eyes still so vivid in my memory, just like your childish ways. More »

I want to say I love you, were it not weird,
we barely know each other, your whole life’s ahead of you
whilst I sometimes don’t have strength to tie my shoes.
I wish it were obvious,
the beloved the lover loving,
catching you write my name in your book
instead of revising for the exam.

I want to sleep, would hope just die,
begone the idea you know the truth
(and pretend not to see my glance and sigh)
I want to write everything
no fear to exchange senhal with obvious,
for — alas — you are not stupid
(and if you were I would not be here)

I want to write decent prose but I cannot
for it is too soon to love, too late for reason.
I want to forgo my bohemian passion
(which in truth is just a schoolgirl’s whim)

I want I love you, were it not weird
and so instead I tell you this:
“because of you I write again”

By C. Cavafy. More »

I am not the kind of person that writes book reviews; in fact I am the kind of person who stubbornly ignores any reading suggestion and keeps browsing the store for two hours before leaving with nothing new to read. More »

Tim (Timothy Kurek) is a big guy, the kind of big you would not want to spill your drink on in a crowded bar the night you had one too many. He is very American-looking, and if you ask me I’ll tell you he wears nothing but baseball caps, short-sleeved lumberjack shirts, short trousers, and sneakers; mostly because that’s how I remember him. More »

«a maggio devo andare lontano / e il pericolo corre lungo i binari»
(«May I am to go far away / and danger runs on rail»)
– Lo Stato Sociale, Quello che le donne dicono

It’s hot, I cannot sleep, and you snore half-awake.
I toss to and fro about this weary bed¹ (whatever space you give me), eventually I give in to insomnia and I think. I think of what to do this summer, of how hot your hand on my side is, of a song by Lo Stato Sociale… You’ve stopped snoring, you breath is the only cool thing in this room, and yet the window is open.

Memories. More »

Do not fall in love with a writer.
Published,aspiring or unknown, it does not matter.
Do not fall in love with a writer.
The writer lives on nice words, stories to tell.
My soul, do not love a writer;
what use can he make of a person, if not a character?
More »

My school wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t perfect at all… More »