FABIO NOVEMBRE

I am not telling the facts, I am relating stories.
Are dreams or memories true?
What is born among the stupor of layers of asphalt and rays of sun, it is not a rose, it is not a tulip, it is not only a rose, it is a tulip, it is onaly an echo, a distant thought.
The flower is an abstraction, idea of seduction, a fleeting moment between life and perfection, with petals and colors, we bees among its odors toast with the nectar to dispense pollen.
At times you can confuse joy with pain, but then “To do anything, you need a flower!”