Sara is walking on the lakeshore. She loves the winter’s sunny days. The frozen lake makes her eyes even greener. Nobody has been here for a long, long time. Sara knows. Sara knows many things. Sara has always known, from the beginning. She smiles at the ice. Under her black hair Sara says: “Come back again.” She pauses her thoughts. She tries to pause. She always tries something impossible. This is the only way to avoid the noise. To her, there is no reason to be afraid. To Sara, there is no reason at all.

Sara plays.

She tries to distil simple thoughts from all of her memories: the garden was magnificent, meaningful and far; the father loves his son; the path would have been done; the skin is scratched off; he was the one who brought the light; he is the other on the other side; the night walks upstream; colors and shapes around four dreams; a bride with one glove; shiny riders near black stones; the son will not be found; silver mountains and pleading mouths; red silk of thousands of thoughts.


Sara tries to touch her own thoughts. She believes that it is possible; it is only a matter of pace.


She remembers she was almost there once. She was thinking about an old story, a story that she had found when she went to Bay City. At that time the city was still full of life, like every other city. But Bay City was her favorite city. She went there so many times to see all the incredible progress of those people. She saw generations of babies becoming adult and elderly, decades after decades, making the city higher and higher, transforming everything of asphalt and concrete into glass and crystal. The story was found in one of those crystals. Sara remembers exactly the moment when the fluid shapes started to condense into recognizable forms and colors. She remembers when, suddenly, everything was composed, sharp and clear. To her, it was a gift, an unexpected and fragile gift. She saw herself, eons before, near the edge of the lake, when the lake was not a solid piece of ice yet, when the lake was a liquid spectrum of blues. Sara saw herself reflected on the water, sinking her arms into the water towards the bottom, into the clay, kissing the water, kissing her liquid reflected mouth. Sara saw herself raising her chest on the edge of the lake, embracing a clay man.

She was watching herself in the crystal and caressing the moulded man at the same time. It was then that she tried to reach herself. Sara remembers that she was almost touching the crystal when the air between her hands and the glossy surface started to become denser and denser. The time slowed down and everything was still. She tried with all of her will and strength to overcome the resistance. The crystal commenced to vibrate under the pressure. The temperature rose steeply. Sara remembers her vision becoming blurry. In the crystal, she was cuddling the wet body but the two figures were indistinguishable now. She was melting into the simulacrum. The vibration increased and became audible. Sara began to resonate. Everything was a harmonic wave.

Sara’s laugh.


That time she was almost there, that time Sara was so close to touching her thoughts. She would never be so close again.

From that moment on, she has been walking, searching for something to try, something impossible.


Her hands are glowing now. They are shining even more under the blue star. Sara looks at her palms sometimes. She has no doubt there is still something to know. She believes there is a map in those lines, a chance in every single intersection, a labyrinth with beings and stories, books and poems, flowers and lovers. Sara rejoices in her hands. She follows the ridges on the fingers; she can see so many combinations through them. Every time she looks at them she finds new places. Sara sees the white desert with its golden empress, the ivory tower with its infinite doors and infinite steps. Sara reads every name carved on every floor, on every door; she reads every word on the tower’s wall. She recognizes all the signs, all the lines. Sara moves her fingers. She believes she can carve with her reading. She goes on and on, like a spiral along the wall. She feels the wall; she tries to be the wall. She tries to be the tower with all its words. Unwinding her backbone, Sara twists herself and the whole wall. She sees times and codes carved on her own form.

Sara spins, spins and reads her own ivory skin, faster and faster, she knows she will find the missing word. She will be there to see the blank place, the empty space. Her desire is the same every time. Sara will have spent another lifetime before she will have finally found her last desire deep inside.

She will have gone through lines and signs, through lands and skies, through palms and eyes. She will find the place to pause and taste, to face the end of the quest. Sara will have been there, after all, to open her spirals, unveil herself and say “Come back … come back again.”

Sara laughs.

– August 2013

Writer: Born in Potenza (1980), Massimiliano Lacertosa now lives in Bologna. He studied Arts, Music and Performing Arts, majoring in Theater. His photo project VIII Giorno (Eighth Day) featured in the VIEWS section of Revolve #8, Summer 2013, and is part of a larger work in progress he started in 2008 in Basillicata, Italy.

To view more of his work, visit: