There are times, many, when I think that I speak alone. Does it matter? Scarcely 30 hours ago, on a night with a bloodstained moon, I discovered what life could be. From Gehenna to Zion. I liked what I saw. Girls in miniskirts and terrible women. Nordic beauties with intense lips. Hot blood behind eyes black like the midnight sea. Cognitive apotheosis. I want more! For hours and hours the phrase is repeated. From Gehenna to Zion. The mist that covers everything is attractive to the heart, and the feeling that everything is within reach makes you feel infinitely better. I want more! Strains of nights that flood the senses, create dreams of a strong world and the Will of Power. From Gehenna to Zion. To abandon the Valley of Hinnom for a day, to feel beyond oneself, to arrive where YOU are. I want more! The sky is so high … and it turns out that you have already passed it. Have you ever seen the yellow brick road? From Gehenna to Zion. Gehenna, Gedena, Gemela, Geoda, Gema. From Gehenna to Zion. Love without limit that will be killed by the light of day. I want more! Time passes and it doesn’t crush you. My hands are free and they plough and work Gehenna. Before, putrid valley, dump of sins and ridiculed of Nations (the nation You, the nation Me, the nation The Rest); now, fertile field of mechanical devices, slender flowers and bi-cephalic dogs. I want more! The touch and the smell, the eye and the hearing are blurred and they open the way to certainty. I want more! I want to make Gehenna to Zion eternal: that ‘inferos’ and ‘infernus’ are blurred; that the limbo recovers what is it’s own and the hyperconscious sky burns until it turns you to smoke. I want more! That Gehenna: Zion. Sand on the beach under the feet is like time that we lose. Perhaps you’ve already had enough? I haven’t, never. Fausto, who sells his soul, knows that it isn’t necessary. I want it all! Because I know that the only thing that never ceases is the desire to want. The past was never better, memory is the ash of failure. From Gehenna to Zion. Look for your number on your back; be careful not to bend too much; your crystal bones will shatter into a thousand pieces. More! Now! Scratch the number, erase it; tear and pull the skin and perhaps they won’t recognise you. More! GEHENNA. My face is blurred by the morning sun. ZION.

   It is day and they have returned, and the blood from my back doesn’t cover the number, tattooed a thousand times, marked by fire, carved into the bone through to the marrow. Maggots feed on me. The bi-cephalic dogs agonise and steel rots in the sun. The strains of nights return to the sewers where night and day are only notches on the wall. Gehenna is again Gehenna. And Zion is further away than ever; Unattainable, further away: the map has become indecipherable and the path knots itself, suffocating. You see and you hear, you touch and you smell. And I don’t like any of it. The ‘morsus conscienciae’ returns, and a gOD in a distant place feels proud of it. And still you want himme to speak? You think that I can say something to console myself? Difficult work. Porcelain Hercules riddled, destroyed below the hooves of time that gallops impassive. Time that you left behind, now can’t be frozen . Zion above the sky. Gloria there where she wants to be and peace in Gehenna. Peace that negates want, hunger, man. How do You, I, The Rest want me to say something?