I would not exist without the paper. The paper of my books, which smelled since childhood with greed. The paper notes that pack of friends and family for a child. The paper rejected on the bare soft Morositas that devoured in one gulp. The paper they scribbled naked women smoking and roasted chicken (and, in the absence of that, I can live in the walls of my bedroom).
Only now I realize how much paper has been able to accumulate in twenty-three years of life. Items wanted by some that I would have been useful in the future, compelling advertising, fashion photography models which would contour and wanted to hang on the wall, entire magazines, brochures, postcards, brochures, exhibitions, cinema tickets, theater, concerts. Besides books, many books from being submerged.
have not changed, and perhaps only with Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451 could come to my rescue by giving everything to the flames. Two decades of life, few but intense. And then, the memories. Many. Between black and white photos from which darts look young Arab mother, my grandmother Sgambati and smiling, but my grandfather never knew that I should know, and Roald Dahl's Matilda, and Priscilla White Pitzorno Struts, Pinin Carpi and Wolf Hurricane , Margaret Mahy and his pirate everything to ashes.
Thinking back, I choose the powder, the weight of the perfume.
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