Fugacity is everything. It's in anyone's face. And we needlessly defend the position conquered! As if it belonged to us. A "trap" I defined it in my last post. I confirm. White orchid leaves the pages of the books I loved. And suicide swallows in the mouths of the cold rivers of Finland. Elizabeth did not say her name to the whirlpool that swallowed her. He no longer had a name: a woman who dies in nobody's world. Cultured directly from the plant, his life will have seemed that of a nymph of stones, eroded by elemental power. Orchis himself will come to take his passion. The death heals many wounds, cultivates many fields, even those deconsecrated. A gash in the plant on which the days grow. It betrays who governs the chapter of words to profit from it. Mario, her husband, a teacher for all of us, has traveled twenty thousand leagues around the perfection of a leaf, to the need that it be shown, not cultured. Yet it was not enough! The corpse of the woman has offered herself to the delirium of the controversial world, perhaps due to an ill-managed anger, perhaps due to a conclusive story. I do not want to, I can not even imagine the places that have accompanied her, fleeting vestal, from the shadow of the forest to that of the road with no return. I ask her only the same pity she has had for herself, a model of nights combined in the warehouses of a war of wood and fire. Nobody, my friend, can wake you up. Not even the wild beasts that eat your bones. You are earth, water and torment. In the planetarium of a moment you walk all the distances and creep with the temper of a melancholy extirpated to the blackest earth. Making love madness, conceiving the inconceivable. This I ask you, on behalf of the rebels, against the immense destiny. The orchid in the hair of the Olympia of Manet, the female nudity that defies the rules of well-meaning people. The still lifes of Heade. Emotions dilated by O'Keeffe's mental vagina. All symbols of a spectral and impulsive flourishing. What are you for me. Among your paintings, which I keep in the living room, stained with thorns and hand-woven colors, the claws lose their sight. Riaccesi now from all memories, descended from the visionary eyes of Proust, D'Annunzio and Marinetti, three favorite authors, white orchid leaves anticipate the unexpressed symbols of anger and forgiveness. They make you alive. Magically transformed, from a trickle of fresh water, into a plant.