These shallow waters never met what I needed.

I never put your address on the envelope, where you live now remains uncertain, the distance between Heaven and Earth is just one more unknown factor, a loss made up by numbers I don't understand. The words, on the other hand, are set in letters. They are written in an alphabet I've had since past times to learn.

Therefore, I've made up my mind. My daughter won't grow up in a city where the whole western region exists only to take her away from me. I've lost enough already, don't you think so, Chiara? I write letters to the air, I write letters to the memories of horizons I once knew, horizons I remember from my childhood town and I hope that Chiarina will fall in love with just one of them when she sees them, when we drive into Asolo and the mountain peaks frame in the rooftops and the top floors of the rearmost houses, like a sort of carpentry in stoneware. The horizons are many, they are hundreds in that area, I pray that just one of them will appeal to her, so that she stays, so that she no longer seeks the ocean by call of her nature.

Yes, I'm leaving Naples, not now but in the morning, early, before the sun burns the volcanoes to ashes behind us and believe me, I will bring my daughter with me. We will go north, we will go back, so Chiarina can have the chance to learn the origins of her own name, so she can look around amongst the mountains and understand that from the hundreds of horizons there, the basic, the fundamental, the most important one of them all is missing. Still.

Yours, Chiara, yours.