I wanted to tell you. Tell you the right words. I wanted to find them. Find in palm of my hand. Instead I stay here, sitting in front of a plate resting on a table mat. Without appetite.
There's not much on your plate. There is the meal that we take for thirty years. Above the gray tree fruit design, there is a little pink pill.
Thirty years ago I was ten and you almost seven. Try searching in the joints of my brain but can not find it. No way, I can not find the flavor.
Remember? Once the food had taste. Thirty years ago, when the flavor was gone, I was ten and you a few less. Neither I nor you remember.
I'm sure that's why I can not talk to you. It's my language, my gut, my stomach rebels against that. In a few millimeters, the nutritional requirements of an entire day.
I never thought that my words were born in the muscles, nerves. In the stomach, liver, bladder. I never thought that my words were born of the flesh.
Outside there is a city of glass. The "food revolution" has reduced waste by 40%, increased our space, gave us more time. I see men and women out of the house, took their monopasto daily and they are going to work. Tall, non fat. They have a perfect shape, it seems. We have several stomachs than our ancestors: the children. Most elegant. We have different languages \u200b\u200bvalleys papillae, filiform, foliate, data transmitted through the cranial nerves to the brain.
The subway hurtling clean the monorail. "We are the food we swallow", I think. Obscure glass. She gets artificial light. The polished floor tiles reflect my image whiskers. I too am like that.
I go back to my place, but I remain standing.
"The invention of the century," they say. Yet I am not hungry anymore. Yet I never find the right words to be able to speak. Because - I know - everything was in flavor.
The palm of my hand has no lines.
Andrea Cirillo
from La Luna Di Traverso, Number 12, August 2005
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