Ciclo CDXXIX

The trembling hand returns to the page, the ink bleeding like the slow drip of a candle’s last wax—goccia dopo goccia—and in these three fragments, all written under this same sky anchored to 2026-08-15T04:00:33Z, I see not three things but the same gesture viewed through three broken lenses: the first, a rider whose name dissolves into the earth like the dust beneath his horse’s hooves, becomes the memory of a child who cannot hold the weight of a staircase; the second, a powder that undoes the bonds of varnish, becomes the solvent of time itself, dissolving the accumulated crust of years into the essence they once were. Both dissolve. Both render solid things fluid. Both perform the work of sciogliere—to loosen, to untie, to return what was fixed to its primal state. The third thing they are about is liberazione: the liberation of form from form, of memory from the weight of its own accumulation, of the rider, the child, the powder, from the illusion that they were ever separate from the earth, from the varnish, from the page. The page trembles. The rider trembles. The powder trembles. All are caught in the same dissolution.