The new year begins and, worldwide, women run daily to check their mailboxes: some of them have to walk along a short short cobblestones of a duplex, some fly into the elevator and start compulsively pressing the “ground,” and some in their robes wait for the mailman to arrive, blowing the boil from a cup of coffee, while condensation sticks to the window and for a few moments blocks their view: how anxious. They have been waiting for that moment for 300 days: 7200 hours, 432 thousand piles of 60 interminable seconds divided by a short and very slight chime, which, if you concentrate and hold your breath, maybe you can hear. Suddenly the pattering of hooves on the asphalt, the chorus of trumpets carried by the wind, gold-adorned flags cutting the horizon with persuasive and regal embroidery: it has arrived — after all, this year, even earlier. Women take to the streets like Russian socialists in St. Petersburg in ’17, but this time not to fight: each one who approaches the float is handed an invitation.

Your gracious presence will be highly appreciated at the 8th March grand gala.

Women’s Day will take place inside the Fatal Suite.

You will find the guide and any necessary equipment for the access to the metaverse inside this box.

Some queer squeaks, on the side of the road, enraged at not having received the precious invitation, while a transvestite approaches with her sparkling heels, two brand-new boobs, and arm outstretched toward the messenger. An LGBTQ version of Buonarroti’s Creation of Adam: the messenger, like God, has the power to grant existence – in this case, the wanted one. So, a web party with 3.5 billion invitees and a lineup of visually striking events: a shower of mimosas, a panel discussion with Cardi B and Rita Levi Montalcini’s hologram, a cocktail party with the Femme Fatale – hence the name of the Suite – who pierced the screen in the James Bond saga, and a small manicure workshop for your avatar.

While all this chaotic virtual assemblage quivers and each of its components stays comfortable on the couch, a woman opens her eyes as she turns over in bed waked up by the smell of coffee: she stretches, occupying the entire surface of the mattress and tries to accustom her eyes to the small glimmer of light leaking through the blinds. She sees nothing: without lenses the world for her is blurred, faded, fuzzy and confused, but her ears work, once the plugs are removed. She can tell, from the noises coming from the kitchen, that someone is preparing breakfast for her: a yogurt in which to dunk a few cereals, honey – the crystallized kind and strictly from the refrigerator -, rusks flanked by any kind of jam, and the mumbling of a coffee mocha. She gets up and in making her way to the bathroom, casts a bemused glance into the kitchen, sees you, comes skipping over, lifts her feet slightly on her toes and kisses you … as you kiss her.

How beautiful it is to zoom and discover a detail in a photograph. 
Every woman has her own mimosa: hers has the scent of rice in white, the twigs that intersect like her feet in your legs to keep warm when she’s cold, the amber color of a tan that can’t leave her skin – and how can you blame her, she’s a party.

By Antonio Floriani

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