Living this good life, why would you want to fly? And why suffer so long without being sure of the result?

just as she had begun to believe her fairy tale,

It was a strange, unpleasant sensation to scream for yourself alone, to scream silently.

Enzo’s life, and probably yours too, would serve as a lesson for no one. It emerges, endures, and ends without anyone arranging its episodes into a narrative, organizing them so that onlookers can take them in, ideally. Because there are no onlookers, and the lives that go untold are like pebbles thrown up in the air: their linear trajectory does

lie down, go to sleep, and make tomorrow come as quickly as possible, with the happy ending that will come with the daylight?

That’s what my dad says, and he’s right. Strong people hit; weak people get hit.’

Really, where is there to hide? How do you escape? All the fears that used to fill our days and our imaginations, how can you avoid being suddenly seized by them once again, here, in the dark, with the whispers of the trees and the invisible beasts?

This is not a moment. There is no time in what you are going through. Your suffering is a place, and you don’t know whether you can ever leave this place.

because a child doesn’t die like you, an adult or an old person reading these lines. Children die without having had a chance to picture the end, without a sense of it being born and maturing within them. They die the same way they get lice or a skinned knee. They die without understanding, with their childish naïveté imagining death the way they