I have shortly become aware of the fact that I belong to a literary movement which is spreading across the realm of comunication overbearing as only the internet, it’s diffusion channel, has shown to be before.Pages which continuously recall literary art , actuality topics , painting , mathematical and physics theories , hints of written rather than experienced life for the fear of having to make decisions ; this is the transversal generation that clearly perceives the concept of consequence and is the most passive one ever. The expressive level of “ The Movement” slowly leads you to the very powerful level of Truth, which hurts whoever is writing about it , that gets you drunk on your truth , like nothing else has been ever able get you on such a high . It’s like getting rid of one’s armour just before a new knight is about to challenge you , it’s complete surrender , the strength of he who has no remaining strength , no fear, no aggressiveness. THE OTHER / When you write , the core of the problem , capable of putting you to a stop ,or , worse , capable of wasting your thoughts , is THE OTHER , THE OTHERS.To write for others is counterfeiting , searching for approval by others is pollution of the river of expression. You never really write for your own self.The Other , the else, stays as a factor that need be trasformed , time after time , with the help of one’s imagination, of one’s will , into the idealInterlocutor, one who can read straight through us in a way that defies our own capacity to do so.You try to cancel faces while writing , and you try to say simply what you wanted to say, and you are terrorized by the pornography of the “ well packed “.The toughest part of the job was finding the original colours , drawing a straight line from point A to B.Some pages require the toll of a decision in spite of all , admisssions that weaken you further, that lead you to feel ever more unfit.It’s about colours on rough surfaces that must not be polished , the price being that of the loss of the image as a whole , the loss of comprehension. You write letters you pretend to have lost along the road ; and you expect someone to pick one up ,, read it and find something familiar in it. CONSEQUENCES / You end up by changing your days by sticking to your writing , your lies are a suicidal attempt against your most genuine drive.There are no limits to the substance once you have coopted for the fall of form. And once the substance is borne to life and moves about the papers , the passage from paper to life becomes automatic , disruptive. No faces whatsoever , no references , only that straight line that links an idea to it’s most feasable expression , a need one has to face : this is what writing tuns into. Every word a choice , every omission a decision , every idea sent to slaughter , you being the butcher . And if real life is overwhelmed by events , on paper you only weigh commas by the ounce.