There are places in the landscape made entirely out of language, little mountain slopes, hills made out of Italian. Italian is the most romantic language, not French. Everyone knows that. Patrizia Cavalli knew that. Even that freak, riding out there on the ridges of our childhood. Our little narratives. Crazy Baby. Were we really fb friends? I want to stay connected to my lover while his mother is dying. I’m in a panic. No way to ever get back to what we were, whatever language that would be. It’s almost too much. This total freedom. Pic of a pizza box. A Doritos bag. Hidden pics. And a secret file of pics I’ve collected inside the pandemic that now belongs to someone else. And I haven’t even said a word! Scattered. Then gathered in one place. Something worth remembering. Love is letting someone be who they are. No judgment. And what if they’re a murderer? A rapist? Ungrateful son? Or even a lover (from time to time) who needs to disappear?