NoThere are several of us living in the I.
One of us wrote this little trilogy about love, nothingness and the departure towards the beginning.
Another, concerned, hung up a few pictures, just to scratch around the sky to see if someone had got trapped!
Meanwhile, the last one, wearing the mask of the I, sits in front of a headless piano in the irrepressible hope of an infinite song, trying to replace his teeth with the keyboard.
Undoubtedly, a celestial spring has spilled a drop, which has grown in the pains of age and the only remedy for us, peppered with spirit, is a wisp of derision in a soup of cosmic dust.
To your lips.