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Fran├žois berthoud

A sax howls its incandescent crystalline lament at the moon.
The notes slice through the night, in strands of stardust. A dog turns its head as it slinks away, head still turned, tail down, as though it knows that something's wrong in the air. And yet there is something right in the air, which rises from the lungs like a fierce desire that becomes a sound that becomes a voice that becomes a colour. The colour of the deco houses of porta Romana just before dawn. The colour of our city, suddenly silent, waiting for a new day of work, tears, happiness and dreams. The colour of our bags, which are neither song nor poetry, but carry within them dedication, care, passion: real emotions.