Retroactive
( Giovanni De Matteo ITA – RETROACTIVE )

She looks at me and says: «What I want this moment lasts for ever…»

We run on the road thrown towards the night, just she and me: a couple of souls thrashing in communion on the same frequency of resonance. German serial car radio, between a discharge of statics and the next one, transmits rock history remnants sorted in a nostalgic night palimpsest. Broadcasting whimsies before dawn have driven Radio Rock voice in dark and silent valley. 

«Have you seen the sky, tonight?» she asks to me with a dreaming voice, stressing my sensation to stay suspended in a dreamy scene. «It’s frozen in a strange perfection, like it were going to explode…»

Her voice throws my consciousness in a virtuous stream of pure emotive magma. I feel living.

She turns to me her diaphanous look and says: «I’d like that all lasts for ever…»

The road runs away quickly, giving slivers of the night landscape across the silent country. On the notes of an old hit by Lou Reed, granted by greater night flexibility to the commerce imperatives, I hear our souls interacting in a superior synthesis. On car radio LCD, next to Blaupunkt logo, icy prints in a coltish electric blue exhibits radio data system decoding: we’re hearing Radio Rock and it’s 23:47.

 «What a strange sky, tonight…» she tells me leaning out towards drops beadsed windscreen: «It looks like being contracted in a suspended atmosphere, as it’s going to happening something…»

Pure pleasure flows in my lodes, as a result of the combined action by her voice tone, the tuning I feel thrashing between us and the speed. I feel living for the first time after an indeterminate time. I feel really living.

She looks back to me and says: «I’d like this moment never ends…»

Golf shout swallows famelic the asphalt tape of the road unfolded on the sleepy body of the night. Rejecting ionic rustling of the interferences speakers transmit beginning notes by Kill Your Sons. Free programming of Radio Rock makes close or souls sublimating to a celestial resonance. Shining types on the Balupunkt display frame in blue lays on black bed RDS clockward messages. It’s 23:47 and the phone number to demand a song through SMS is 340106600.

«Sky is so strange tonight…» she tells me leaning out on the fascia in order to exploit windscreen visual. «There’s a strange atmosphere. All the world looks like suspended, tonight…»

Her words wake a whirlpool of wrapping sensations in the gloom of my soul. I can feel fear riding wave length of adrenaline. But I feel alive as it did not happen by years ago, breathing her coat smell invading the car, compenetrating it and me. I distract my look from the blinding light of two eyes scannering from the depth of the night.

I feel living, at last.

Foreign to the influence of the multiplication of looks concentrating over us.

She looks at me and says: «I’d like that all never ends…»

My Golf runs away quickly on the wet mantle of the road, thrown towards the heart of the night. Dissipating statics discharges survived in the ionic strip of the thunderstorm, 13 mm speakers of the radio system evocate scraping notes by the mythology of the rock. Almost riding on the storm, Lou Reed breaks out from the night programming by Radio Rock in a live interpretation of Kill Your Sons. I breathe thirstily molecules of her scent, hankering for her flesh, wishful of her. On the black bottom of the Blaupunkt LCD configurations takes form from the RDS processing of the radio signal. It’s 23:47, we’re tuned on 106.600 FM and we can forward our demands via SMS. Number is 340106600.

«What a strange sky tonight…» she says leaning out towards the windscreen beadsed of drops. «You can breathe a strange atmosphere. All the world looks suspended, tonight…»

Her words are emotive magma that pours in gushes in my lodes. I feel my soul sinking in a maelstrom of wrapping sensations and at last fear comes out from nought, lording the wave-length of adrenaline. For the first time I’m afraid to lose something, but the beauty of the moment it’s too sublime to be corrupted. I feel alive as I didn’t long time ago, breathing her coat scent invading the binnacle, and softly slides under the layers of perception. I distract my look from the blinding light of two remote eyes that are scannering me from the depth of the night. Instantaneous multiplication of atrocious looks exhibiting in a gruesome dancing… I can feel the scream of a horn, and the desperate whistle of the tires trying to claw renegade asphalt, while the fate ride down myself donating a last vision of the past, silver nitrate slide extrapolated directly from memory. On it, composition of her visage distant, remote, moony shines, and her look off in distance founds itself to the sharp perception of her fragrance, of the fragrance of her dreams, of their psychic substance, intangible.

At last the night swallows me.

And then the sky explodes.