On the cover: Donna Vitucci, Ophelia, acrylic on mixed media, private collection (for inquiries contact our Editorial Team)
You would understand me
if you read my footnotes.
I cannot explain my isolation
without a tiny font.
My treatise on loneliness
is full of small clarifications:
random Latin words,
ancient languages.
Everything related
to my solitary days.
The paragraphs of my sadness
are linked to the lines of my isolation.
On page 50, I explain my melancholy
and why winter refreshes my soul.
I tell about the nights
reading about ancient Anatolia,
and how a lonely woman finds
comfort learning about old worlds.
At the end of every page,
there is always something to remember.
It could be an old book,
a Byzantine document,
an extinct language,
because in my lonely hours,
knowledge is the only thing
that fills my days.
I write my notes to tell
the world how lonely I am.
But no one reads my footnotes.
Nobody wants my explanations,
of my loneliness
unread and forgotten.
