anymore, more attends him it serves only to tar our legs and to prevent us to advance in our walk.
It had some keys in pocket and it hoped gladly they were really those of his/her house. The lock of the front door of entry to the complex of palazzoni obeyed to the indented order of the small key in the hands of Saint. The ferryman reached the atrium of his/her building and entered, fully recognizing every facet of his. There was there already the elevator to wait for him/it. While the box pushed him/it aloft up to the seventh floor, the man it observed its face reflected in the scratched mirror and graffittato by innumerable signatures. Something had to have live for strength, its skin brought evident wrinkles obvious representatives of indisputable lived experiences. Its face, was certain of it, it was different from as he/she previously remembered her/it to the events of Boscocittà. A photo came to mind it enrolls that it had in the portfolio, gone off back around four years before knowing the countess Monteghini. It looked for the photo among the innumerable papers disseminated in his/her portfolio. It found her. It had fear that him ripresentasse in front of his/her eyes the same face what time it scrutinized to the mirror. If so you/he/she had been you/he/she would have been great rights to believe that also the experience lived with Dafne, if you/he/she had not derived from his/her imagination, it was belonging however to that other dimension. It stared at her for endless minutes, regardless that the elevator had already reached destination. It was his/her face, it recognized him/it, but it had a juvenile freshness that the expression engraved in the mirror that had of forehead missed it. Its body had for strength lived deep vicissitudes that its face had expressed of time in time, underlining that furrows on the skin, testimony of the departed time. Taken courage and it inserted the key in the patch of the last door that divided him/it from the privacy world of his/her studio apartment. When it opened him, the first things that you/they jumped to his eyes were the batteries of ancient books disseminated on the floor and the pentacolo drawn in earth, still surrounded by different out candles. It was as always everything, as he/she remembered him/it. You looked around and it immediately understood that in that place you/he/she would not have found trace of the life passed with Dafne. How could you/he/she find her/it? Lacking from every material interest and by instinct a great deal messy, it was probable you/he/she had left everything abandoned in the moment in which you/he/she had decided to undertake the walk with the countess. Unfortunately he/she didn't now remember the practical details of his/her transfer anymore in the villa Monteghini. It still had in mind the moment in which, being about himself/herself/itself to make the baggages, Dafne you/he/she had smiled at him, sustaining that you/he/she would not have needed his/her suits. In a closet of the villa you/he/she had already made to on purpose prepare a wardrobe for him, of his/her ransom and surely of his/her pleasure. Saint took a seat in earth, really to the center of the pentacolo from him drawn. It still had a job and a house but perhaps, in the moment in which was fallen asleep again, those small certainties and joints would also have disappeared to that point a part of itself if it also wished him/it. Now that the circle of the possibilities was incredibly narrow and the roads to be crossed were all you flow away in that only hold, those certainties already oppressed him/it as the narrowest jail on that pale world. Way of living the thinness, to deepen the vague one, that is for excellence country of the more turned on liberty of expression, released from any law or compromise, meant to find in a flash to tighten a fist of flies. If the tangibility of the immanent things for the occultist were a sore that held back him/it ill in a bed of illness, the intangibility of the psyche whirlingly raised him/it to make him/it then collapse in an instant in earth, giving him the impression that all of its efforts were useless. It was as to build an immense castle among the clouds without foundations that it connected him/it to the firm earth. Saint possessed an invisible rubber band able to catapult him/it among the sumptuousness of that work, but immediately after its concreteness of chained living being to a body it again dragged him/it in earth, leaving him/it exhausted, vacant, to lick him the wounds provoked by that huge fall.
What was it really true?
Then it flowed a fragment of dream on the floor. There was a black feather to fix silent his/her loneliness. Was you/he/she passed of there a nighttime angel to finally try to definitely tear him/it from the braccias of the austere stepmother that it represented that dismal dimension? Sin, had missed him! The train of the salvation and him was passed was allowed to lose him/it! Then it flowed next to the feather of the imprints of heel. ricord that far breaker in which the countess was introduced long live to the humble presence of his/her house to exhort to share him/it with her new experiences. But then had him really known from long live, had not lived of her only the trasumanazione of his/her Spirit! Probably! Perhaps! That light signs on the floor could deceive him/it, the feather perhaps belonged to the eccentric attire of a young girl that had conquered in some anonymous local dark or perhaps no, this time was not wrong him, the test was truthful. smiled. You/he/she would never have known him/it with certainty.
The author
Carlo Rogato devotes more possible time to the development of his creativeness. You deals with music as author and musician in a band of the Milanese underground over, obviously, to write. It primarily draws his/her inspirations from a cemetery where it lends his work as a real modern ferryman of souls. From here starts his visionaries intuitions inspired by the intangible energy of the deadly passing. His thirst of spiritual knowledge the first door to deepen important themes that space from the theosophy to the cabal, to the sciamanesimo, thin to warn the demand to express the match between the undertaken studies and his experiences on the field, in this case, saint. Its particular vision can be seen by someone as suggestion, but, later almost ten years in this place it is presumable that the suggestion has well little space in the normal daily. For the writer a book doesn't have an univocal direction: a work acts in the mind of the reader and this is more easily verifiable thanks to its words it engraved on paper, but, even if not verifiable with a known unity of measure, the energy emitted by the thought of the reader influences notably the writer's atman.
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