come on George, just say it, just admit the fucking thing, admit it, you are not who you say you are, you are a phoney, just a translation of something else, you are a fraudulent, dishonest, cheating man. Just admit to it, the origin of your fucking name and then come back and report to me.

Lying down in the sight of your painting, touching the face of someone I have never met, I wonder: Is this time now, when I know where to park my bicycle, which roads to avoid, when I walk and I know where I am going, when I know where to buy red tomatoes, radicchio and vine leaves.