There once was an author who got out of bed, left the millionaire hosts’ villa at the city outskirts, walked out onto a meadow over which a morning fog still hung, still in his black dress trousers, white shirt, polished silver cufflinks and black bow-tie, and took a step after step after step, barefoot, through the dewy grass, towards the end of The Night.

He had enough of court shuffling and legal proceedings relating to                  , enough of mornings waking up high above dense Milanese asphalt fields of unjoy, enough of breakfasts in-and-out of cars, dates in-and-out of bars and multiple night stands under skies pregnant with stars.

There was a dense deliberation within his greasy soul that no soup spoon could drive out, and yet, as he walked through the twilight meadow towards a gently sloping hillside, the thin, semi-permeable membrane of the bottom of his right foot absorbed a drop of morning dew deep into itself, blessed an artery with its freshness, dislodged its blood clot and sent it into bloodstream orbit, forced it up a vein and into the heart, up and out through an artery, harder faster stronger, until it came to rest in the tightest cul-de-sac of the right hemisphere, so mysteriously damp and grey, where it caused a stroke so profound and rude that it interrupted his bored socialite morning of deodorant armpit irritation and bad taste in mouth hangover of a night of debauchery spent awake and rudely interrupted a coming epiphany.

Yes, the epiphany that he desperately longed for since his youth came but he was too late, and an incessant, self-indulgent digression followed. But the man, around whom these words gyrated and oscillated, was still lying, barefoot, in the fragrant grass, his black pants and white shirt wet from dew, and was beginning to convulse, shiver, spasm and copulate with the intense fear of seeing his ego die. And his terrible émigré mentality, still haunted by invented proletariat pasts, uranium dungeon break beats and diamond mine opium dreams, exhalations of the pulverized kind—his exultations didn’t exist, il y a longtemps. Breaking down in a stupor of trees, tears swirling above what only the heart sees, he vaguely remembered sitting on the highest branch of a tall oak tree, looking far into a vague horizon and feeling free.

Either way, no theory or speculation, no philosophical treatise or discussion of economical or sociopolitical repercussions could help a man convulsing in the early Sunday morning on a Gherardini 24fps meadow that he thought never could sustain itself outside the balcony of his 23rd floor apartment.

Yet, still, such things do happen.

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