This is my place.
I cannot remember a time other
than this very instant now.
I have put down roots in this dwell
as if the world depended on it
and I have taken the pulse of a life
beaten by palpitations
facing the frantic abysm of the future.
The trails of the memory
dissolve themselves in the irritating asepsis
of disinfectants and anti-allergenic foam.
In a fetal position, staring at a screen,
the weave of anticipations and dystopias
is unravelling.
The nets spread out upon the orb
dragging fears and hopes
as dying fishes boiling
in the scrambled stream of the world,
and the fishers of men
count their victories according to the exchange currency.
And yet the streets are roaring,
raising the glaze of scorched voices
and the smoke of howls burn to ashes.
The clock muted its striking hours
in the insipid aphonia of the digital netherworld.
Inside it the time stretches out swirling in the tautological
redundancy of a Topus Uranus
with no idea of itself.
Who spurs the horses of a destiny
forged in chains of algorithms and statistics?
Here is the memory of a possible future
diluted in a past without a figure or form,
without colors, without tastes, without substance
to be rescued of a waiting yearning its own extinction.
I can only remember this moment.
And the tactile membrane of its images
filling a memory
ready to be emptied at the very instant
in which cannot longer give more of itself.
