“Oh, the four of you at that time!
Like the confluence of four deep, unsettled seas tied together into a magnificent enormous drape of spume; feelings suturing earth and sky like stitches suturing wounds; small fragments of fiction scribbled on paper; books of poetry resonating in the dark like cords of mandolins under the fingers of rejected lovers; fragile withered roses kept forever like relics in a church; the smell of fresh painted canvases mixed with that of salt water.
Any relation with the outside world severed.
That was the reality born out of your fantasy, Clara.”
I was in tears
“Angelo, I know of no other reality but my fantasy.”
Excerpt from the manuscript “Glass Lovers”