I hear steps on the stairs and I imagine that every single sound is made by your feet… I see shadows outside, through the silky curtain, and I imagine that one of them is the insubstantial image of your body… I hear the wind hissing outdoor and I imagine you, doing up your coat and crossing your arms tightly, as you’re waiting in front of my window to catch the first beam of light when I decide to turn the lights on. But I’m lurking here, in the darkness of my cold room, eyes shut, knees bent, and I know that you’re so far away… Not yards away, not miles away, but a world away.

You’re not real. You belong to a dream woven by my imagination, in a moment of sinful bliss. It was having a ménage-a-trois with the memory and the affectivity, while she conceived this dream. Pitiful product of an unsafe mental sexual episode!

You, from all the human figures who ever strolled through my mind! You, nameless fiend, who were just a flicker on the screen of my life! A solitary night, a heavy downpour, the bus- a random shelter, and a cursed kiss! I don’t even know your name, but I dream about you! I’ve allowed you to enter the stronghold of my brain and now I can’t make you go away!

Actually, I can. But I don’t want to. You’d say: “Such  a hackneyed phrase!”. I say :”Shut up, this is the truth. Let’s be honest! What would my life be like without the hope that, one day, you’ll turn up in front of my door, grab my body in your arms, put me down on the floor and kiss my skin for hours? Dull, grey, stale. Instead of this, I hug a colourful, nourishing, and vivid hope.”

I’ve made up different stories about you. In all of them, you’re the main character. I’ve put you in the shoes of an unfaithful husband, who’s been married for five years, who has three lovers (one of them is his sister-in-law) and has a crush for every blonde girl he sees on the street. Especially at eerie, rainy nights! I’ve given you the role of a dying boy, who suffers from leukemia and takes advantage of every single moment because it might be the last one. In other story you’re an artist, a multi-talented artist. One day the dancer, next day the musician, another day the poet. This is the version I like the most. This is the only story in which my character appears. I’m your secret muse, who you don’t want to meet because you’re afraid that you’ll fall for me and your art will get upset. Art is the only thing I have respect for. I won’t ask you to cheat on it. I’d rather be your source of inspiration and nothing more than this.