Padrone Dove Sei

Master Where Are You

Humid fresco on the masturbatory act and vision. Not a shouted search but a telluric implosion, statement of missing, useless S.O.S. thrown among paper notebooks, protective natures, cars off and forgotten nests. Orphans of masters long gone, scratched bodies find temporary shelters for solitary animal flesh coitus, dark landing places in which dying - and holding breath until the next shipwreck.