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Venice

The other day I walked to Venice. The city a fire was dead, aside from the spark of the steady trade. From the station to San Marco, in this way many are waiting to be revived wonder off. Meanwhile, everything is a little shop which enter and leave the square until you accept it as a mortuary where the pigeons peck at the flesh of tourists wandering in vain in his mangled this time. I wondered as I walked if he is still here or there that you must come from somewhere else. I think Mastralessio, stuck to the bow of desolation among the clods of Daunia, I think the place free from the plague of fatuous glances, a place built by those who live elsewhere and has left the old guards, the lame, the dogs. I can not explain how it is there my Venice; every city is submerged, but wound up in none of its wish to seem active, fun. I write about places I have no reason or wrong, are abandoned as a swag, a summary report of extensive disease attached to the land round. So I'm not around to distract and perhaps even to see. What I do is read the flesh bitten by cannibals, the land escaped the tabula rasa of progress that makes Mastralessio apparently empty shell or rind. The truth of things is the joy and struggle to give light to the capitals of despair, places abandoned, upset the spirits, rather than align with the gigantic undertaker to which there is less accustomed to the culture of consumption and consumption, ensnared by the illusion of saving every man for himself (and not leave us in this effort, dreams, compassion and arguments).

(from the village of Hemlock - F. Arminio)