I’ve written a book with no words, only empty pages for my eyes to rest in wonder and dream. Day after night, I’ve poured my soul and devotion into it, wholeheartedly drafting a chapter for each winter spent in reflection and remembrance. I have feverishly written a story without words or punctuation; only autumn clouds, winter moons, longing melodies and faded mirrors, where I have observed my own face aging through each season of silence. The cover of my book has a hauntingly evocative picture I couldn’t take, although I had certainly wished and planned to. It has all of the qualities that a pictorial book cover should have, except colors, shapes or forms; only untraced, invisible borders around the dreamlike title that I meant to give, but then decided not to. Surely, I know exactly what you are thinking and maybe you are right. Yet, my favorite part of the book might be its blissful ending that I so laboriously left unwritten.
poem & photography by Marco Pignataro