I am looking at the Scarrupata, from the punt. I took it from the little pier of Ischia Ponte. Tabula rasa.
The tragic present has disappeared. I no longer know who I am. My eyes turn towards the round rocks on the shore in order to look for a foothold. The sea is a watercolour. It paints the bay. It is slow, stopped. No, it is moving. Loneliness has always accompanied me here.
The bow cutting the water fills the emptiness. The vegetation is approching with the typical scent of feast. It is speaking to me. It reminds me of my childhood, when I used to come with my parents. But I still don’t know who I am.
