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Il passato non passa. Prima, prima di adesso, tutto pareva diverso, gli alberi erano alberi, i rami erano rami, le foglie erano foglie. Prima, prima di adesso, tutto era quello che era, il rosso era rosso, il verde era verde, il giallo era giallo. La terra, era universo freddo ed immobile, le camere, infinite pause di passaggio nei giochi, gli amici, amici e basta. Prima, prima di adesso, tutto era quello che era, gli incubi, tra le coperte di lana vera, erano incubi, le notti filtrate rotte dalle serrande nude, erano notti, i giorni, ore appese all’orologio al neon, la vita. Il passato non passa. Prima, prima di adesso, il mondo era quello che era. I giorni, quelli che erano, adesso era solamente adesso e non domani. La memoria non ritorna, persiste, divide, schiaccia gli angoli della ragione. La mattina, bianca nuda dell’inverno, non arrivava mai, la sera, nera irta nella fiacca, serrava la vita vera, i tempi, minuti secondi dell’avvenire arrivavano sempre, precisi, dritti, ineluttabili. Adesso, dopo, più tardi, non esistevano. Oppure si, dopo, adesso, notte, giorno, erano fissi e mobili nel tempo in avvenire. Il passato non passa. Prima, prima di adesso, tutto pareva diverso, gli alberi erano alberi, i rami erano rami, le foglie erano foglie. Prima, prima di adesso, tutto era quello che era, il rosso era rosso, il verde era verde, il giallo era giallo. Forse.

The past does not pass. Before, before now, everything seemed to be different, trees were trees, branches were branches, leaves were leaves. Before, before now, everything was what it was, red was red, green was green, yellow was yellow. Earth was an universe, cold and motionless. The rooms, never ending recesses in the games. Friends, just friends. Before, before now, everything was what it was. The nightmares, under real wool blankets, were nightmares. The nights, cut into pieces by bare shutters, were nights. The days, hours hanging by a neon clock, were life. The past does not pass. Before, before now, the world was what it was. The days what they were. This moment was now only, not tomorrow. Memory does not go back, it holds over, it divides, it crushes the corners of the reason. The naked white winter morning never came, the evening, harsh and black in the weariness, locked in the true life. The times, seconds of happening always came, precisely, directly, inescapably. NOW, AFTER, LATER, these did not even exist. Or maybe yes. AFTER, NOW, NIGHT, DAY, were steady and moving in the flow of time. The past does not pass. Before, before now, everything looked different, trees were trees, branches were branches, leaves were leaves. Before, before now, everything was what it was, red was red, green was green, yellow was yellow. Maybe.

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