A decadent love letter from a decadent "lost" poet

tragicly fallen in love, with an impossible young English lady


- and nobody knew - torn and frayed - my love thrown away

Hymn to the place of "never-been"

Monday, 20th August, 2001 - darkness filled up my "blind" eyes



...and even this time all is coming to an end

it's all been incredible, my friend

but I think here I can't stand

it is getting very near the end...

my show is coming to an end, my friend.

It's Monday the 20th August. An ordinary, a day like

any other day.

It's Monday and I'm no longer an activity leader

for TLC.

I won't ever be, eventually.

So far I have broken my watch, broken my pair of

glasses, missed tens of trains and buses for ten

bloody seconds, lost my jumper, lost my sweater,

lost important addresses......and... well......

lost myself for the nth time.

It's Monday, a very ordinary Monday and I don't

need anymore to wake up with bloody accents, whether

it is French or English....or Italian... As well as

you don't need anymore to pull my leg or wind me up

............or to be that shy girl you're well known

for. And, well, I would say clever, after all. I'm

meant to be one who's able to spot clever minds

miles away. Don't underrate me, and I won't underrate


It's Monday and you got 4As*, while I've got 4.....

days left....... the battle, my own battle, rages on.

There's still fire and lightnings to keep it on, I'm

waiting for the next explosion of thunders and rain

which accompanies my killing imagination. I love

falling in love with my thoughts. They keep me awake

all the time, even when I should let everything go.

I love them. I need them. I adore them. I would like

to kill them!!..... Before they can kill me. But I

cannot help it. It's stronger than me. Stronger than

my will. It's ME vs ME. A passionate, dramatic battle

within my mind. Who's gonna win?... Who's gonna over-

take the other?...

I won't let myself blow away.

It's Monday, a bloody Monday. My bedroom is as untidy

as ever, just as my fuckingly complicated brain.

I'm sinking. Definitely sinking. I'm being killed

by an "imagination-overdose". I'm being driven

slightly, slowly mad, trying to keep myself afloat,

but..... it's surrender, by now......

Maybe it is getting very near the end.

I'm the man standing on the corner, completely iso-

lated, while the others joyfully have fun dancing

to a deafening loud music.

I'm the nice fellow to whom no-one says hallo whenever

I go to a party.

I'm your outsider, a natural born one, bound to

struggle and trying not to get overwhelm by his own

over-thinking, then his own over-worrying.

Remember? I'm 80 early in the morning, 60 after

breakfast, 40 at mid-noon, 30 in the early afternoon,

20 in the evening, from 8 to 15 late at night.....


I'm "Sir Sensitivity" during the day, but supposed

to be "Evil Nosferatu" at deep, very deep night,

gently entitled to "suck" blood to my victims and

give myself a "high" time, fairly "accompanied" by

its unsafe and overwhelming darkness, a dearest friend

to me. Then, to get back, when dawn rises again, to

my spoiled and eerie grave. And let my tormented soul

"die" again. To re-live the following night.

Just let me fall into my dream, a labyrinthine dream,

from which it is apparently impossible to escape. But it's too late, I've already been trapped. No way out.

And now way in, no access to rest of the World.

Just let me go back into my Dark Side of the Moon,

see you very soon. Nowhere-bound, that "nowhere" I

came from. A place to be, a place with no people,

desperately needed for me, I need my very own island

where to keep the wicked Planet far and let myself go

into a stunningly blue sea of emotions and peaceful

easy feelings.

Let me let me let me... let me over and over again

sail away, for a never come-back. A f....... bastard

getaway. I will let my corrosive doubts vanish with

this annoyingly freezing wind and maybe one day you'll

find the answer.

Far from the madding crowd, I'm the little raging

boy quit too early by his mother and father, I'm

crying and no-one is coming to rescue me. Alone with

my child-ish ghosts and rumours that apparently do

not exist, except within my corrupted mind. It's

like diving into an empty, dark swimming pool, sure

I won't get hurt. No, I won't.

I feel like I have to cross a very busy, chaotic

road in a huge, disturbing big town, without watching

not to left nor to right.

I won't get hurt, my friend. No, I won't.

I'm sure, I won't.



A "gorgeous" activity leader

....wearing big-girl-like-long-socks

....and having a very BAD French accent........

....or the "bloodiest and weirdest English accent

ever heard so far"..........

my VERY OWN accent!!!

.......Definitely your ultimate outsider

.........Definitely "Mr. Misunderstood"

.... Definitely...... MR. DEFINITELY!!!!!!!!!!!


A natural born "menthally-drunk" 28-year-old-Italian-fellow

...who adores George Best and "comes" from Sgt. Pepper

(I used to live there, until a certain time ago).

A very very very good guy, INDEED!!!!!!!




*: 4As equivalerebbe al massimo risultato ottenibile

attraverso i famosi A-LEVELS inglesi, una serie di

esami che permettono di individuare il grado di

preparazione degli studenti inglesi nel delicato,

cruciale passaggio tra la maturita' conseguita nelle

scuole superiori ed il successivo passaggio all'Univer-

sita' per la quale si ha optato.