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In the early years of my life I was accustomed to living with serenity and spontaneity, because the only rules I had to respect were those of home and, naively, I had never asked myself whether out of my house there were other rules: just I saw something on a shelf and I’d reach across my hand to touch it and pick it up. I had to investigate, hear and record. A child’s curiosity is boundless, maybe that’s why they are all a bit rebels from small, but it is also normal. Life is a gift and I think we are aware of it only at the beginning of our existence, when we live calmly without fuss absurd, abstruse and incomprehensible rules; to burn is a bit like finish thrown into a crowd of people at the market. Our eyes fill colors of clothes of passers-by and we were so taken by the goods on display, that the fact to be there, it invests us like an explosion; so, we do not focus well on the rules that govern that fiber of the universe, we simply enjoy it as long as we can.
From the car window that drove my mother, I saw scroll fields, homes and people like a series of photographs in bright colors. I was kidnapped by the succession of images; memorized landmarks, like a tree or a wall and marveling my own ability to memorize the places I had seen. Some nights we went out all three together drive: I was sitting behind, my mother was sitting in the passenger seat, next to my father, who was at the wheel. The dark outside enveloped the car like a blanket and I loved lying down on those seats slightly inclined towards the bonnet, too dark as night. The only flashes that lit up the interior of the car were my father’s cigarette Firefly orange and colored dots of the dashboard: from my kennel I saw those colored stars, while my parents who, with their whispering, to reconcile my sleep, enveloped by the rumbling of the motor car, which he had on me the same soporific effect of the wind that howled outside our House.