I don’t know if I’m running, I don’t know if I’m dreaming. Silence accompanies my steps, geometric shapes accompany my breath. Every inch of my body is suspended in an orderly, unknown reality; every thought is lulled by a calm restlessness.

I don’t know if I’m running, I don’t know if I’m dreaming. Tresigallo, they call it, an utopian mecca of rationalism, a seemingly abandoned village lost in the fog of the Ferrara countryside. The irrational, here, is disguised as the rational, the understandable appears incomprehensible. And viceversa. Bar Roma, Casa della Cultura, Campo Sportivo, Sogni… I touch unknown places, with ethereal names, urban cuttlefish bones belonging to another time, so material, so abstract.

I don’t know if I’m running, I don’t know if I’m dreaming. I listen to the sound of a delicate fountain, bronze fallow deer are drinking, around them, a centuries-old void. Inanimate arches and turrets, colours and marbles support my journey, addressing it towards the unknown. I don’t remember arriving in this place, I won’t remember leaving.