It keeps on growing. Sliding through the words, through the actions and thoughts. Even our. Rome, pictures, bodies, music, love, hugs, emotions, videos, ideas, eyes, cries, silences, doubts, faith, life. The cancer, the blood, the whims, the needs, der korper, the body. The cancer. My heart that skips a beat, once in a while, when I don't think about, while I'm dancing, while I'm loving and just for a fraction of a second everything almost switch off, as a drop in voltage in a big city. Maybe cause I run too much, I think too much, I sleep too less, I cry and cry and cry, but not just because I'm sad. Maybe the calcium, maybe the kidneys, maybe the music, the dance, the cancer, the love, the idea of love, the need, the whim. And then rehearsals, thousand, million of steps, fucking fast, fucking precise, fucking on time and the premiere, the satisfacion, the joy, the ego, the love, maybe, or maybe the idea of love or the representation of love and the thoughts and the cancer. And again even this, rehearsals, recordings, videos, my voice, my throat, my tongue, the cancer, my father, my blood, that runs and runs except that fraction of a second once in a while in which it stops or almost stops. And more, more party, more tears, more sex, more love, or maybe less, even this, we go, Faenza, Italia, Teatro Masini, the joy, the power, the energy, god, faith, dance, friends, parents, mothers, emotions, thoughts, cries, again, even worse, even if, even there, even this. EVEN OUR. Nel bene e nel male. And forward, my aunt, the house where I spent all the best time in my life, the last dinner there, forever, another part of my past that disappear, and Pietro, and nothing changes, and my grandmother, and her hands tightened in mine, her eyes, her tears, joy and pain and all the past and the history where I come from. My smile. The duty of happiness. The duty. The cancer. Again. That slides into my body, into my world, into my words. And Beatrice translating all my shit to my mother in front of her. And the respect, and the virtuality and more, even more. EVEN NOTHING.