I'm writing because I attended
your concert, it was the sixteenth
of September. You played Prokofiev, and
it's strange about music: you return
to places that don't exist. Two questions
keep me busy. One has to do with
conditions and destiny. The other has to do with
Procris. That it occurred to her to run into the forest.
That she couldn't trust her mate! I visited a
museum of Renaissance painting and then, everywhere,
in the streets, in subways, I saw: light, silky blue and that
special tenderness. In everyone! In the animals! I teach at a
high school here. It's beautiful in Sicily in the spring when
the lemon trees are in bloom. Perhaps you prefer to travel
according to your own plans but I wanted to ask because music
restores us, and a cloud drifts in through the window into
my apartment as the clouds sweep by every
morning over the park where I walk.