Everybody hasa little story totell and it'salways the same.
Nor is itentirelyours, evenif we consumemuch of his life-and an evenmore of ourthoughts-in feelingthe protagonistsat the centerof a smallscenechanging,often obscureand impenetrabletoour reason-an invisibletechnicianplayswith the lightsand shadows,according toprojectsthatescape us.
The fact is thatwe need to understand,indeed, tobelieve that they canunderstand.
Thereal sceneismuch broaderand isunintelligible,but maybe you cantellanyway,simply continuingthe account ofothers,you can explore,venturingdeeper intosomeuncertain steps-andget dizzy-like blindaccompaniedup tothere, tohand,by others.
This collectionis a hypothesisof the track inthese few steps, handstill bears the imprintofthe warmth ofthe hands ofgrandparents,theserene soundof their voiceas we walked throughthe woods.
It is the imprintofheat of the handsof otherloved ones,their preciouslight in the darknessof the scene.
It is alsothe mark ofthe heat ofmy hand-I hope-inthem.
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