collection I
the things I can only say in ink
“come se il mondo intero fosse un segreto da proteggere”— Le mani della nonna
Nothing meant for you gets lost in transit.
The rain that fell on your street this morning was ocean once. It rose without being asked, travelled a thousand miles as cloud, crossed borders that required no papers of it, and came down exactly here — on your window, your roof, your ordinary Tuesday.
Nothing arrives early. Nothing arrives late. What is yours is already on its way to you.