Listen to me, my love. On Tuesday, January 24th, Lenio called me from Milato, disturbed, to inform me, can you believe it? That a strong wind uprooted a tree from my garden. The wind? What wind, I was surprised. Where did I hear about the wind? I haven't been locked up here with these people for years now? I mean the novel that ended tonight. What? How did the wind get in here and take them off the table that I don't want to get up from, exhausted and frightened, because if I get up the thread will break, for so many years now that my heroes and I were blowing up banks, American bases, making fun of the police, exploiting each other's needs, for a little love, a little love, a lot of justice. Me, you tell me! Only the scenery has changed. Prometheus moved from the rock to the White Cells. What wind, my god, what wind was that blowing so hard and extinguished the purpose of the hero's song on the last page - it was finally our discovery, both of us - so that others could hear, so that it could attract the attention of people who no longer hear the deafening silence of human loneliness. And I, sitting here, admired his last great strides, with my palms on the orange cardboard envelope, which closed and stole his company and the joy of nursing his incurable loneliness. What wind? And what will I become now, without the delusion that I am fighting injustice and it will rush to pierce me from everywhere. What tree? Did anyone ever notify any of you that I am here, uprooted from the Paradise of indifference and ignorance? That the wildness of all winds blows relentlessly and pierces me, defenseless? What am I doing here, Mary, my love, with my eyes

(an endless letter)