JAY-Z: "The Black Album"

Is there any minimum age before we are allowed to bath in feelings of nostalgia, at times? What is the turning point from which you start wondering about the value of the presence, idealising the past and fearing the future?

The charm of a black album spinning circles on a velvet plate. A needle reading music notes amidst some cracking, as if it were a cosy fireplace. The beauty of imperfection. The album cover a mystical piece of art, which you can hang on the wall as proudly as if it were showcased in one or another Guggenheim museum.

The smell of fresh bread lingering as invisible morning haze in the street. A bakery’s open door, tempting you to surrender to your taste buds and buy a warm loaf or sweaty croissant. The impossibility to cut it into slices, at least not yet, and the eagerness to loot the soft inside, while abandoning the crust.

A dialect word you thought had long been extinct already. A forgotten childhood dish that appears on the dining table. Some black-and-white pictures glued in a scrapbook, shot in a time when taking a picture was a tedious undertaking still. I always imagine smiles were brighter in those days, or at least more sincere; people always value more of what is scarce, and they rejoice in novelty. So then, I wonder, which archaeologist will ever find his way in the labyrinth of pictures that are scattered around in our modern virtual world? How ever to summarize history in this avalanche of information, technological whims and communication exchange that buries us each moment of the day?

More than substance, memories remain. Then why do we remember what we remember, while we forget what we have forgotten? What makes certain events stand out, and survive the test of time, while other moments in our life disappear as steam escaping from a cooking pot?

SNOW PATROL: "Chasing Cars"

Do you feel the wind? Or do you hear it? Is there any remote corner on this planet, where cars haven’t chased away the sound of silence yet? People build big houses these days, trying to impress others more than themselves. But no architect can draw silence; no construction worker can build tranquility.

THE CARDIGANS: "Erase And Rewind"

There’s a chamber in my heart
For you to roam
In a different part
Of your imagination

A hand to hold
A story to unfold
Inner-sweet temptation
Free from expectation

For little is more
And what you win is not to loose
The regret of what you forebore
Savour a moment on a random day
And adore someone
In more than just many ways

LAURA PAUSINI: "l coraggio che non c’è"

Siena - San Gimignano
(Italy)

CHRIS ISAAK: "Wicked Game"

What do you hold in your hands when the music stops? Where will you sit when the music stops? Will there still be any chair left? And do you want to be part of this game anyway? There’s so much more to discover outside this room. There’s joy in companionship, but there’s companionship in joy as well. Change the rules, a little, and you’ll be rewarded with a whole new experience.

THE LIBERTINES: "Don't Look Back Into The Sun"

Cleavage is like the sun: you can glance at it, but you must not stare at it.

THE CHEMICAL BROTHERS: "Left Right"

左思右想 (zuǒ sī yòu xiǎng)

"Thinking of the left and pondering over the right."

METALLICA: “Turn The Page”

He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling. The air in the room is heavy, yet invisible as weight generally is. The blinds darken the room; the summer sun plays outside. He’ll be dozing off soon.

There’s a book on the night table, with a bookmark keeping two seemingly random pages apart. It divides the pages before and after in two plots of land, like a flag planted by the reader to mark the border of the grounds he has conquered already. But anything can happen outside the territory that lies between the front and back cover. A book has no will. The reader has all power. He can resume a story at any time convenient to him. He can let the characters wait, like a guest coming late on purpose to underline his own importance. The reader can chose to abort his reading, and forever remain ignorant about the rest of the story. The plot has unfolded anyway. It does not need the reader’s help to exist. A book can remain unread forever, for many books are purchased impulsively, by people who will never find the time to read them. Books collect dust on bookshelves, better than any vacuum cleaner ever can. They may gradually turn yellow, like a piece of laundry that hung in the sun for all too many times. The reader can pass the book to a friend, and share what he has read, for whatever reason that may be. The book can become a gift, for the giver to give and the receiver to receive. Books are lent to acquaintances and never returned to the original owner. The results of statistical research about this phenomenon would be so shocking, that no one even dares to start the counting. Numerous books end up as abandoned children roaming across the world. They may find a safe harbour in libraries, if they are lucky. They are put into carton boxes when people move to another place, but risk to remain unpacked forever. Sometimes they don’t even make it, when they end up on the pavement waiting for the recycling company to collect them as ordinary waste paper. Books are touched by different hands, they have their own smell. They are torn, burnt, printed, copied, scanned. They are talked about, translated, discussed in reading groups. They follow their readers on holidays to exotic countries. They take planes, buses, trains. They listen to the tweeting of birds on a bench in the park. They have a life on their own, just as the lives they capture within.

He wakes up with the sound of cheerful children voices outside; a plastic ball bounces on the cobble stones. He turns on his side, pushes himself up and steps out of the bed. His bare feet touch the ebony parquet floor. He reaches for the switch of the lamp on the night table; a book drops. A bookmark falls out.

MOLOKO: "The Time Is Now"

Nunc ipsum gaudere tempus est.

KASHMIR: "In The Sand"

Rajasthan (India)