"Le mie parole sono balocchi"/"My words are toys"

There are moments when the weave of reality loosens itself and between the
mesh a doubt creeps. Something amazing. Like in a fairytale the physical laws
don’t works, we move in a world made by symbols and signs and enigmas, a
world made by secret words to repeat faithfully.
The pictures of “once upon a face” are just like small cracks on the thick wall of
the visual common sense. They are spells raising mysterious animals,
miraculous objects.
They are small stones floating in the mind. Small paper obsessions. They are
sharp in their black&white that emphasize their alienating side, that bring to
their essential side and make them dramatic.
Drama means laceration, fissure.
In this kind of crack these imagines get in. These visions change the world.
Because there is still something to say. Something that take away all the old
words to bring a new one.
There’s a language made by names that look like butterflies on the lips.
Butterflies able to rise and fly upon an oppressed and grievous land.