“That old music box had been confined to the right corner of the drawer for years.
One day, and it seemed like just any other day, he returned to his chest of drawers as if on a throne and she made him sing her only 5 notes, which immediately made the window open wide, the walls break down and they dived there on the crest of the hill poised between day and night, between the bright day and the black night surrounded by the colors of love. Everything was suspended, his shadow had disappeared, the leaves were sails in the wind and for the first time he sensed the heartbeat of the planet and all the INFINITY it had inside.
He deployed his entire life there: he could thus quickly go back and forth through every moment of his past and outline something of his future on a repetitive pattern, he played with the folds of time and then found himself in the windows of infinity.

No, it wasn't a mother-of-pearl idea, not a ball of thoughts, it wasn't the fog that clouds your vision: it was an immense color, it was free and pure particles that She breathed in, it was a window in the sky, it was a spying on the infinite, it was feeling like a FRAGMENT of everything.

And that's where he stopped, sat on the big gray prominent stone that commanded respect, a true star of the hill. With a grave voice, and perhaps with a little hoarseness, the stone spoke clearly: that morning it did not want to be a simple object, a stopover, a parking lot, it also wanted to give a different angle on the canvas of the world and so, while he held his rock crystal in his hands, he saw the figures, the shapes, the objects transform, alone and without effort just as if it had to happen, into something that had no form, that went beyond. And it was a nice thing to start from the beginning: just essence, no accessories. She took all her memories and locked them in the safe.

The last note of the music box had intertwined with a large silver brushstroke, free and alone, there in the sky.
On the music of the world there were no elements that blocked the gaze in that strange crumpled light, only vibrations of infinity filtered through.
She let herself be carried away.
A seagull glided.
At the top there was always that thread that had been white, grey, then rust, and now transformed into gold.
The rock crystal continued to shine.
– But are dreams still sacred?
– They are primary and pure colors and like intuitions it is better to keep them, you shouldn't throw anything away. ... who knows if it
all started with the 5 notes of the
old music box..."

Enzo Archetti

This story is published in the volume "fragmenti d'finito" Edited by Marco Serra Tarantola Brescia December 2006