What comes first is experience.
One morning, years ago, a few weeks after my grandmother left me, I was climbing the black wrought iron spiral staircase. I stopped and realised that I no longer remembered her smell. Before reaching that step, despite the fact that she had been reunited with the earth for several weeks, I was sure that I could check for her smell and be able to recognize it. But now that she was dead, my memory would have been deprived of it forever and I would never have been able to recognize the smell of my grandmother ever again, to burst into tears and throw myself into her arms. The pages became dunes and waves, memories of my inner landscape. I walk a long corridor, where time works freely and corrodes the structure. There is no internal or external. And the mandarin smell emanating from the sand will soon disappear. In its place mold will grow.
Stanislao SattaI don’t study, I don’t work, I don’t watch TV, I don’t go to the cinema, I don’t play sports.
