But I’m not here to make myself a culture about contemporary Italian music anyway. The only reason why I’m subjecting myself to five hours of foreign television was one of the first artists to perform, flawless in his midnight blue suit and shiny sheer shirt, his voice dancing without effort from one note to the other to show off its infuriating range. As if I needed to be reminded of it.
(As if I didn’t spend the great part of my 2020 committing every detail of his voice to memory, constantly regretting that I only had access to the parts of it that had been recorded and handed over to the Internet. Missing that little, private laugh of his that I got to know for a couple of hours three years ago and still can’t get out of my head. Missing the way my name rolled on his tongue, followed by a spark in his eyes and the subtle movement of his fingertips along my arm.)
