The value and quality of love are therefore determined solely by the one who loves.

For this reason, the majority prefer to love rather than be loved. Almost everyone wants to love.

And the harsh truth is that for many the condition of being loved is intolerable.

Because the lover always tries to expose the object of his love;

and requires every possible kind of relationship with the beloved, even if the experience will only bring him pain.

 <1 >

Liza is dead. My wife. She committed suicide. She left me a letter. I found it by chance. She was under the pillow. I don't have the courage to open it. I don't have the strength to read. I have nothing left. I have nothing left.

Wilson returns home. He crosses the threshold of the void. The wingspan of silence erases the horizon. The floor becomes a bed, the air is still, it is plastic, and the night is populated with hungry demons that have the form of a question. Ghosts inhabit Gothic castles and horror stories, but the scariest ones are in the heart of man. Wilson holds the letter in his hands. He always carries it with him, but he doesn't open it. He finds his wife's hair tie in the car, on the dashboard. Her hair, you know? The ones he caressed a billion times had the scent of the sun caressing the back of a deer on a late autumn afternoon. Now he has nothing left. Everything hurts, everything is scary. It would like to be like the dragonfly or the calicanto: without any identity.

Liza. I would like to understand, I would like to understand you. But I get depressed imagining endless things. Oceans in revolt and darkness are my thoughts. I wear smiles that I can't manage, I construct sentences that collapse on me. I hate you with a boundless love.

Wilson is alone in interstellar space. An immense asteroid, a speck of desperate blue. The characteristic echo of an abandoned house has taken control of his heart. His eyes are swollen, his mouth full of shattered words. He would have liked it. He should have. The questions, the torments, the ghosts, the anger, the pain, the addiction. He doesn't know where to go, what to do. His mother-in-law is all the family he has, but he has nothing left. The woman would like you to read the letter from her daughter. But he doesn't have the courage. Every time he wakes up he is further and further away from reality, whatever it is. He is alone and lost in the infinite cosmos.

The heart that cries as I say
I have an enemy to forget you

And it is there, reflected in the mirror, you have my own empty eyes full of decaying worlds, of adrift galaxies, of nothing at all nothing at all of war of bloody afternoons under a blossoming almond tree. Wilson sees himself, a monster hungry for memories, enthusiasm, possibilities. Everything is her, she is everything. Love is dead, and the future and the universe and all the insects. Wilson is his enemy, his double, opposite and murderer, like in a story by Borges, like in Lynch's nightmare, like in a walk in the snow with Robert Walser, like meeting a new friend who loves playing with model cars airplanes, like going to the zoo with a woman who says among the stench of the animals that she thinks she's fallen in love with you.

The voice that trembles as you say
<4 >I have scars to forget you

Wilson enters a vortex without end, without beginning, without time, without any meaning, because he does not understand the insistence of the days. Why the sun? Why that shirt? What fuel do remote-controlled airplanes need? How long the fuck does the night last? Wilson doesn't come home, he won't go back again, because home is where I'm with her. Wilson, artist of regret, esthete of waiting, proceeds indomitable in his very personal free descent into hell, that crowded place of solitude that is her heart without her. Because, perhaps, the real question is not why she killed herself, but why she married him.

Liza, I'm seasick, galaxy sick.
I would like to tame the world,
protect you in these paths,
hold on for a second,
don't get lost in certain thoughts.
Life is cruel: it took you away from me.

Wilson is adrift within himself. You can't make peace with certain ghosts. There is no way out of certain labyrinths. Life is an incurable disease. Yes, it has to be like this. Or. Nevertheless. I don't know, he doesn't know either: Wilson only knows that he has found a single relief, a dependence, a surrogate for serenity, a toxic peace, an island in which to take refuge from the war of days, hours, minutes, of everyone the seconds that have his face.

The sun that now sets every morning
To forget you I get drunk on petrol
< br />Wilson travels with his new friend, together they go to a gathering of modeling enthusiasts, he dives into the river and interrupts the race, the world submerges him, the pain does not disappear, the suffering does not subside, the desperation is frame everything and still hasn't read that letter. The mother-in-law has the same pain as her, which is why he rejects her, doesn't accept, doesn't understand, has nothing left. Grieving is a strictly personal thing, I think. How to fall in love, how to believe that that kiss is truly a new big bang and that the universe was born in this precise moment, in the instant your lips touched mine all things were born, time, planets, dinosaurs, God, computers, spaceships, Sundays made of snow and melancholy. What will be in those lines? Explanations, delusions, desires, excuses, prayers, hypotheses, hopes, thanks, pain, violence, love, sweetness, frozen seas? It will still hurt. It already hurts so bad. Wilson buries his face in a towel soaked in petrol.

The darkness that eats every tomorrow
To fly you away I invent airplanes

Wilson, again, always, just for a moment. Planes, fuel, hell, dust, memories. The deafening silence of his empty house eclipses every sigh, every heartbeat, every breath. The sky is a very small, unattainable dot, chewed up and spat out. What's the point if you're not there to draw the clouds? What do I do with the rain if you aren't there to dance with me in the puddles? And this bed, these colors, this food, this garden, this shapeless chaos called life, what are they for? Wilson loses his job. One day he comes home and finds nothing left, everything has disappeared. The clothes, the cutlery, the chairs. And the photographs, the memories, the letter. And even more true now: I have nothing left.

Liza. Can you ever forgive me? Will I ever be able to forgive myself? Will I ever be able to forgive you? How long have you been thinking about it? Help me, please, stay here with me, leave me forever. Why did you do it?

Wilson runs to his mother-in-law's house, together with his friend. It was she who took everything. He is desperate, he has nothing left. The woman shouts at him “you have everything about her”. Pain, like love, makes us blind. Wilson enters the house, moves between piles of clothes, between boxes full of photographs, memories of a lifetime, or rather all of them. He sits down. The sun comes in through the window and lights up the room. He opens the letter. He starts reading.