A twin sister of the fallen queen.
A fairy tale about a double personality and schizophrenia in the woods, dangerous for nature lovers from the city, who adore indiscriminately everything outdoors. Dreamers, hikers, magicians of their own world. And she with the same age, same miracle of micro life. Twins are sensitive for unseen things, they say, clairvoyant a word for what we cannot see or touch or smell. And so it always begins, nothingness, the invisible and then we speak of creation or a miracle and we call it belief, how would we call it otherwise, nonsense maybe and you think that is really different or even better? A tree never walks away – as long as one does not read poems. Sometimes a tree falls down. Poor queen, poor reader. Marcovaldo does not like to leave the forest.

Out of the way, a hearse is coming up. Slowly, a kind of full speed ,appropriate for death like music changing from andante to vivace. When I was young the older men would take off their hat out of respect. Respect for the dead, for death? A man, a woman, a child, who knows, that is on its way, going somewhere unknown? See the man on the left, in front of the hearse, half turning away, with his mobile and plastic bag, see the horses and their knitted white blankets, the cabman in his jacket, the mourners, one with his bike at hand. They don’t take off their hat, they don’t wear a hat these days. They are all busy, in touch and think of tomorrow, when this street will be empty or crowded by people who go to the market. Yes, better think of tomorrow when death comes by. Who feels at ease when death is passing along? Life passes too fast. I miss the hats.

 
Is it Saint Anthony or a local notable, a man of standing? The saint of the birds, the patron of the sufferers of pestilence? What is the difference, his holiness. Look, the way he listens to what we do not hear. Birds sing, prisoners call or shout, the earth deep down trembles and sighs, that is what he listens to so concentrated and far away at the same time? He holds his arm we do not feel the pain of. He measures the rhythm of life, his body, the sensation of the touch? He slavers the honor of his statue he strived for during his life? And is he happy that he cannot see the sculptured person around the corner? His collegue, competitor, his friend for ever now? He is proud to be in his company, both of them enjoy their own world, status and the people who admire them. Maybe he thinks why do you take a picture of me and not of him around the corner? Something shameless, not that much polite? You are a friend?

They look to be a group of laborers. Do they perform an act for the publicity of the bank? Or are they deliberating and prepapring a strike. They smoke secretly, you assume, a cigarette outdoors and talk about the girl last night?
They look tough guys standing strong, shoulders, arms and hands strongly. They stand in front of a bank, white color workers? No women, apart from the living one who sits on the stairs. Maybe also one in the middle and one at the left hand side. Workers at least. Who brought up this idea of a collective statue? An old tradition or a new initiative to support the common people?