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As a burning and ever-present passion, I have always been keeping hold of mountain, as my best medicine. The source of every lasting relief, and something to wait for during the eternal, lonely evenings in Milan.

Frozen wounds and icy minds, lost memories and confidence. Like the halo of a gone-by summer on the frozen surface of a lake, impermeable even to the sun. Hiding the pitch-black darkness slowly floating under its thick surface.

I have been learning in the hard way that personality is only a fleeting moment in a continuous flow, a spark of light and love in the stream of an unceasing evolution. You fall in love for a mind and, even if the situation seems undying, after all you will always remain alone on the ground among chips and fragments of whatever you knew before the fall.

Frozen wounds on an empty battleground, treacheries and sadness, the cruel smile of an evil deity who continues to repeat, “Hey boy, you know, I told you it would have been like that someday”. And a mad refrain teasing me, “Nichts ist für dich \ nichts war für dich \ nichts bleibt für dich \ für immer.”
So I have to climb faster, trying to leave all these wicked voices far behind, on the snow.

Frozen wounds and painful scars, mad thoughts and broken beliefs, all gone away in the fresh sunny air of the Ayas Valley.

(This photo is for my friend Sarah, for her friendship and support, tonight).

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