Boredom, its declinations and its extreme consequences are the nucleus of the work; the scenic texture sets a mood rather than a narration. However, there is a dramatic linearity that goes from boredom (obsessive repetition, material, spiritual and physical inertia) to the brutal violence: not a perfect syllogism but certainly a literal current paradigm. The detonator is the impossibility of relationship between one with the other. We have worked on what is not there, on the lack as closed and not fertile circuit, on the private as deprivation, on the anesthetic patina that resets feelings and makes us ravenous, insatiable beasts. The desire and its satisfaction no longer match. There is something socially reprehensible in this apathy or at least it seems so: we do not show in public the chronic inability to be happy as we are required to do. We would rather kill when the arrogance of life primes again, for a few seconds, and there is no more way, we do not remember … we do not know anymore. And we are here unable to find a compromise that the other requires, unable to any surrender that could calm us. It’s an impossible study for a perfect love.

“Deceptive is the heart more than anything else… and incurable”.