One hand holds the rod and is raised above the head, for fractions of a joke. As an object thrown in the air that reaches the highest point of his parable and remains there, exhausted along, waiting for other forces take their course. It is shortly before the striking the eardrum, with little conviction, and the indolence of the song request. Put on the score, the words written in Italian in beautiful calligraphy, full of grace. No hurry . The spotlight is driven to rotate to bring violet light, to regain the attention of anyone standing in front of the stage, lost in fantasies inevitably tangential. An ecosystem down there, populated with fauna and flora of neglect of comatose shock. Dozens of bodies committed to transpire, in small groups. The same thing with different names is confusing. Water molecules would be called the surface tension. But these are called human beings to one another and then what's this? Fear? Habit? Emotional gravity? At any moment could come into a room expedition cavers, holding flaming torches of wood, to illuminate the path. The caver always goes with his head down and arching his back. The caver, with his torch, would fire all the steam of alcohol that stands on these heads. Caving, like playing drums, it's destruction.
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