Overview

There is, in this book, a crime. Inside it were abandoned dreams, feelings, and ideas of someone - all in the form of still unfinished poems. The crime, however, is simple: to give faith, hope, that one day they would be corrected and would wander around, proud of themselves - but they weren't. And never will be. They had been, until now, waiting perhaps for that gentle gaze that sometimes a father grants his children - a gaze that supports them in what they could become. But no. It won't be today, nor tomorrow. I now confirm: never. This book is, then, an unfair decision. Unfair to them. And, let's be honest, cowardly on my part. It's a lazy and selfish attempt to empty my mind, to free myself from the burden of looking at a folder and thinking about the things I never finished. All that remains for them, from now on, is this tomb of pages. And within it they will be seen, read, remembered - but always like this: incomplete. Like children who, in the eyes of their own father, could have been more - but were not. Not their fault. Never was. Only mine. ""XLVI I almost called you, but walked away. And time has stolen what's not here today. At the corner of never, we passed so near, That only the distance remained sincere. And now, perhaps, our stories will define: Two strangers who, almost, found another verse to rhyme."" ""LVIII I cannot be everything, I cannot want everything, there is no space for everything in the small suitcase of time. But I can be some things, I can want some things, I can, at least, choose the right ones. And if one day they ask me if it was worth it, I hope to say yes, because within the little that fit, fit everything that was mine.""

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