“I look back.

The house is now empty.

Nature is the unbeatable master.

Dear people of my life are dead.

No rewinding of the time tape is possible.

Nobody’s home can be a real place or just a dream.

There I have to go now, to find my identity.

Nobody’s home is the destination.

Music is the journey.”

Many people talk about memory. Memory is a place in the mind where objects, smells and flavours can be called back from the past.

Getting in those memory paths many years later, wandering among the rubble and the disfigured walls: it means descending into our inner depths in search of something and raising again only with scattered fragments, half-sentences, partly forgotten faces.

Memory is nobody’s home. No one is alive. Yet, the place is still standing.

We have to go through illness, fragility and death.

We have to enter the darkness reaching the limits of madness, to find the pearl. But what is the pearl? Is there a pearl?

At the end, the wounds are not totally healed.

But after this daydream, we feel more aware of who we are, and where we need to go.