Synopsis

What is prison? The architectural form of evil. Prison is a wall, and "the wall is the most terrifying instrument of violence in existence. It has never evolved, because it was born perfect." Every day, during your free time, you can touch it with your nose "to look at it so closely that you can no longer see it. And the wall is not made to act on your body; if you don't touch it, it doesn't touch you. It's not something that hurts, it's an idea that hurts." Sandro Bonvissuto has the attitude of a speleologist of existence. Whether he's talking about the pain of living in prison, the discovery of that gigantic thing that is the other, or a child learning to take the risk of falling, his thoughts always mingle with profound perceptions, savored happiness, endured humiliations, declinations of the feeling of existence rendered with the naturalness and power of water that digs deep. Thus, the overwhelming happiness that friendship brings can be unleashed by three simple letters ("He had said 'we.' And it seemed to me it was the first time that pronoun had resonated in the air, referring to me too. 'We,' said like that, made you seem like half of a plural thing.") A childhood that knows no dictatorship of time ("everyone knows that children and clocks are two incompatible things"), that is intolerant of enclosed spaces ("because childhood has no houses, childhood has streets"), is "truly the only moment in which we were someone else.".