I am ashamed of the polished words, so I hide them throwing rough and crude notes like the Rondanini Pietà still raw with matter on the lines of crys… - Caterina Davinio

And I go down the stairs again with the screeching of my worn out soul P. G. tunes instruments for his golden arm alchemy in a metropolitan shell The squeak of time was thrown back into the cracks where the plaster has the form of a twisting branch and my veins are sturdy trunks, scaly, for drops of green sap nourishment rising from the bowels of the earth, …

Day after day I turn on the machines, I dispense their immense memory, every day I fire up the motors, then inside I switch myself off. ...

Only our voices and gray strips of palm like shining backs of coleoptera, atrocious and suffering under the infinite sun; …