Cinderella

Cinderella took her shoes off after the first five minutes of wearing them on. Too cold, these ice shoes, too tight on her feet, used to walk around the kitchen bare and free.

It was just bad luck that she lost one of them, which did not break. For Goodness Sake! Any regular cup would have collapsed into thousand of liberating pieces! But not these shoes, not them. They were the Devil’s shoes.

It was just VERY bad luck that the charming prince was such a fetish addict, and managed to find her, and replace the lost shoes upon her poor, innocent feet.

Now Cinderella had many servants, and her feet ached, restrained, inside millions of different pairs, which she compulsively collected, hoping to find some day a magical pair that did not make her feet feel eternally trapped.

Princesses are not allowed to dance carefree and barefoot on the kitchen’s palace.

Snow White Blues

Snow White said to the hunter: “why are you looking at me like that, with your lips trembling and your hand steady upon your gun? You knew what you were coming here for, and I am ready. Why so much hesitation? Do it!”

Afterwards, when all was done and over with, the hunter invented a nice story of friendly dwarves, magic mirrors and a charming prince, to tell to his kids on coming home. He did so as he washed the warm juicy blood off his hands.

The forest was silent and full of maggots.

a road movie

Hollywood spoilt me for real life. I can't be happy just with half-true living time...Unreality is so perfect, so bright...I am willing to be part of that.


The road is just the road when feet walking on it define its direction. Unless it has some item on top, it is only a long dusty carpet acting as an awful decorative element on the landscape....

If you could leave the road for a second, and find a parking place in the desert, maybe you would be able to see the heat coming out of the roasting stones in thin, almost solid waves that deform everything...

Then, the dream of water, the imagined lakes on the distance, would placate the yearning for company in the desert, in the loneliness... A mirror on a pupil, a second of floating dust, a cigarette lighting up, his hands laying on the steering wheel.

And the words. Thinking, breathing, talking about time, splitting. Meaning is dissolved in the heat. You hear nothing. A hand trembles. The cigarette falls to the ground. Dripping tears. A body falls. His body. The heat is coming out of your gun, now. Fate is running to catch you. And silence comes back after the noise of his words and your shot dies away. The car, shocked, takes a minute or two to find its way back to the now fully real road. Dust will cover him, not rain. And you are off, off for the real world.

And you can throw all his cigarettes out of the car, through the window, to pave the unreal road on your back...

You know, it is not right to say the wrong words. Not to me. Not on the road.



I love Hollywood endings. Let me flee driving away to the west, and find a more suitable script for my perfect Hollywood movie