letter number three.

I miss Asolo's one hundred horizons, I miss playing forest nymph with you, climbing trees and ascending mountains, herding sheep down the slopes and observing my hometown's rooftops from above, from heavenly heights, look, the brown tiles laid out between grayish-white summits - between the evergreen oaks and common myrtle, growing wild like the paths of the heart. Those were the ones we followed. Then.

Around Naples mountains grow too, but these mountains are on fire, they emit large clouds and leak lava, when they finally arise, we live eternally in the shadows of an approaching eruption and everyone knows with a collective wisdom, Pompeii is located only twenty-eight minutes away from here, when all comes down to it. History has taught us so much, hasn't it, question mark. Listen, Chiara, Campi Flegrei is rumbling, us from Naples feel it in the soles of our feet, a promise of Purgatory and hellish flames, I remember you burning against my torso, you lay pressed against my mountain-peaking breasts, as such you put your ear to my heart, underneath your skin your blood was pounding and the long, prickling and licking flames of your soul devoured us both.

The mountains are passionate terrain, history itself has taught me, my lack of repetition aside.