The flag on the highest tower
Mom, can I come home?
We were born already defeated. Thrown into this world, doomed to die.
We sang to ease the pain, gods appeared. Because I do hope to hear those songs again because I do hope, Milano small smelly city I now must
leave you. Give up my desire for success, give up my image (freedom
soon will come). He lives like a rat in New York City, working all day, chasing a lie. My roommate has a bad feeling about the future (we often talk,
she often cries). I suddenly think that I make art just to magnify my ego. I
trick everyone, I always perform. So empty, so selfish (the notion of death
strikes me like a reassuring thunder). None of my friends wants to have
children (a kid hangs himself, leaving a note saying “done because we
are too menny”). You can’t escape the machine. Produce until production
becomes salvation, until production becomes destruction, until...today is
the first day of sunshine, the empire has fallen. I see people in the streets
running toward joy and liberation. I see my brother and me going to the
sea, the car filled with childhood memories and laughter. I see wildflowers
and seagulls conquering the castle. Like us, they rise at the fall, defining
beauty and disaster.
Photography: Lorenzo Placuzzi