By the way, I’ve never been to Split. And to me that Split doesn’t mean Split, it means Turin. And it has a background, blue, with a green tree on top of a wave with a cow floating.
Split is the name of a love. It’s the name of the moment it started and the moment it ended. The moment we split. But in the middle there are names and places with no thickness. Their consistency is pure letter math: Turin, five.
Squared city. Circular squares. Cold. Vegan. Piazza Vittorio. The Valentino. Horas. San Salvario. Corso Dante. Blond hair. Yellow sofa. Short hallway. The distance. Persepolis. Savoury pies. A birthday. The eighteen. Cozy chairs at the movies. Raffaello. The postal service. A lake. Waterfalls. The center of Italy. Fortino. Porta Nuova. People at home. A table. A Long Island. A life.