Along a windy, narrow street, it was quite an usual deep Summer's evening,

I met an eccentric figure, a lady I had never seen before: friends and acquain-

tences, I remember, used to dub her "weeping midnight callie", they loved

her so much, and they seemed to faintly adore her crazy antics, a woman so

in love with eccentricity. Voices spread around years gone wildly enjoyed

and partied continously kept delivering rumours about her pompous and quite

unpredictable persona, and the little combo of Kennington-In-Burdon had

no hesitation to unashamedly dissipate praises and exultance definitely out

of the ordinary, reaching the impossible and grazing the uncommon.

She was their own Divine, Goddess of the sweet dark they called her

one day. She was electric and involving, a raging beauty that appeared

from a vanishing dead-end street, bringin' tons of unknown magnetism

while wearing old-cinema-stars-like clothes, repeatedly turning around

herself tens of times before fading into the first, amazed, stunned

stranger's arms, and then let herself flow again from face to face,

having all of us fallen in love with her glamourous ego, quite a dangerous,

uncalculable weirdness for that country.... but everytime she took the stage

there was NO TIME at all... SHE was our time, and seconds were supposed

to be shattered or simply taken off, leaving thousands of missing reasons

for what it was happening to the common people around her increasingly

soaring wills. Our Goddess used to be very demanding, and no-one could

object or interrupt her, it was her very own show, no matter how many

spectators she had while performing at the "The Ancient Cradle of Insanity".

"Goddess of the sweet dark always HAS TO PLAY her full-passioned tragedy", says

an old saying passed from generation to generation along the decades,

brought to us till our days thanks to the infectious, never-documented-before adoration

she was able, even after death, to translate and then hand down to the new witnesses of time...

Several men madly fell in love with her, but for a cruel destiny she couldn't

feel affection towards anyone, and pretty soon the Goddess gracely swept into

raging depression; her "true love" was her independence, but everyone seemed

to ignore it. She started dating young enterprising men but soon she revealed to

be tragicly uncapable of feeling ANY kind of emotion. Depression "murderously"

began to eat her ego day after day, hour after hours, infinitive seconds spent

in front of the pale mirror she bought from an erratic antiques shop a very long

time ago, in the middle of her unhappy, and still mysterious youth.

Before going to bed they said she had the "habit" to sleep into a coffin,

in a room meticolously coloured and topped with Greta Garbo's black and white

pictures, all of them hung upon the wall. Her greatest dream - a famous journalist then stated - was that of

dying on the stage, but only "after the most memorable performance anyone

could ever achieve... and that ONLY me could....... The Goddess of the sweet

dark......, you will remember me for the eternity... the woman who COULDN'T

love....... but COULD PLAY LOVE........".

And the red-flamed curtain went down, while darkness smoothly fell on

the audience, still emotionally touched by her indisputable greatness....

all started crying; it was not common tears, but warm, painful tears that undeniably proved

eternal, sonorous, loud adoration for their very own Goddess......

the ONLY ONE they ever had and the only one they ever could admire.......





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