The ogre laughs 
still a little in front of Lily. The fourth wire. The fourth wire was black. Black as pitch. Black as m orte. And Lily was alive would have been afraid even to approach. But Lily was dead. Lily was a ghost. It was no longer afraid of death because the death of reading, she knew, or at least so he thought. But he realized immediately that the fourth wire could hold some surprises, because while continuing to fluctuate felt heavy as lead. She seemed to be grounded even if the soft soil of the lawn was over there, far from his feet and so far that if Lily had a body you would still casts its shadow, as it makes a big cloud in the sky that passes .
Lily did not expect to have to read the death of dreams and illusions. But it was what he did. Because even the ghosts have a destiny and that Lily was to read the stories they wove on the great spider's web. And who knows if it was a spider in writing, the great mother of all spiders that had caressed with phobic insistence, calling back his life every time he seemed to try to get away from her. Until the last final defeat, when even the spiders had to raise the white flag and surrender to death.
And what Lily had read the smell of a path known only beings night and the words were quiet, as something that says the head of a deaf man.
Orc I heard the laughter and the moon is off, as I climbed to the top of the bald hill on that path of round stones that make count more
the will to reach the top of the steps that you make.
It was not the moon lit the way for me, 
was Orc pallor of the face.
It was not the moon was out,
had his mouth open in laughter dark.
And they were not stars, those who now saw shine nel buio, erano i denti dell'Orco.
L'Orco che ingoia i sogni portati dalle civette.
L'Orco che ride delle illusioni.
E mentre scendevo dal sentiero di sassi rotondi,
non contava più la mia volontà.
Ma contavano i passi che facevo.
Quando arrivai a valle non mi voltai a scrutare
il cielo sul colle.
l'Orco ancora rideva.
E mi feci inghiottire dalla notte sulla strada come fosse un mantello che mi copriva le spalle.
La storia del quarto filo si spense come se ogni altro suono fosse possibile, da allora in poi, in un altro mondo. Ma mai più nel mondo di Lily.
A silver thread 
The third thread of silver light shone the moon that he had no part in the luminous phenomenon. Shine on his own, because the moon in the sky of asphalt, when Lily was dead, there was no longer come. Perhaps because of the melancholy ghost of Lily felt tears fill her eyes, the orbits were now a dark lake that a persistent rain was overflowing from the perimeter of the crater, where they usually rocked nothing and some spiders. So Lily
read a story written in words that seemed to dry up just read luminescent and disappear in a magic dust of stars. And the only thing that remained was the wistful memories of the moon.
There was a shadow coming out only at night, rats stretched on the ground and walked all the streets, all in one night. He collected items lost, rejected the calls, the haste and carelessness, the hidden truths from the lies. Every night I was cleaning the streets from the shadow that had been ignored. Until one night he was surprised to pick up the moon. The moon never looked a man. The moon had fallen from the sky, every night more, to be noticed. Because the man he never raised his eyes to the sky and counted the steps for him alone on the earth. When it was found there in the moon's feet had ignored because it did not able to recognize it, so that was not seen. And he no longer even a memory. It thought that the light at night, you just did with the street lamps.
picked up the moon's shadow, pushing forward in the air that stirred in his race against the day approaching. The moon was a burden that even the shadow side eventually abandoned on the street. And even those who, when the day was already full, the moon found the street, he could not recognize it. Without a doubt, even when at night, raising his head, he noticed that it was a moonless night. While the man still did not raise his eyes from his steps, back in the house with closed shutters. As the shadow came back street cleaning the roads that had been ignored, finding the moon where he had left there.
And this was the story of the third wire. The lake was emptied and returned in the dark craters. Lily lost the memory of melancholy, because it is short of the melancholy ghosts. It remains the memory of the moon, as a scar tattoo embellished with silver.
The second wire (I'm) 
Lily was a bit 'he thought, thought to be a full season.
thought every day because it was near the instability. The sky was near as much as that of asphalt, which was an infinite web woven by the spider. Each filo della rete sembrava potersi spezzare da un momento all'altro e pendere per sempre, senza più uno scopo, nell'infinità e nell'eternità del niente. La precarietà è stabile, questo pensava Lily. E chi più di lei, fantasma di se stessa, entità fluttuante e inconsistente, poteva esserne rappresentazione? Fluttuante quanto lo spazio psichico in cui si sviluppa la follia privata, perché non c'è una frontiera tracciata che distingue la follia dalla normalità. E questa normalità bruciante, questa autocombustione della quotidianità e dei rapporti sociali in senso ampio, non è forse follia per quell'umanità che si diceva composta di animali sociali ? No, signor Bauman, avrebbe voluto dirgli Lily, la vita in cui ci svegliamo ogni mattina non è liquida, è un fuoco che fa calare il sole sulla cenere.
Ma adesso Lily poteva smettere di pensare, perché era una tipetta curiosa di guardare da vicino quello che le stava davanti. E davanti a Lily c'era il secondo filo, che doveva leggere in fretta perché si sarebbe potuto spezzare da un momento all'altro.
C'era una vecchia dalla schiena curva che sorrideva agli angeli. Gli angeli erano ombre alate che correvano sui muri, che la vecchia vedeva sbirciando a capo chino, ogni volta che alzava lo sguardo dal suo passo. Il suo passo era uno strisciare di ciabatte consunte quanto la sua voglia di vivere. E fortuna che c'erano gli angeli con her, because she would otherwise have been alone. And fortunately there were angels who held the walls, because otherwise the house would have seemed bare. And fortunately there were angels, because a day would come together, the Angel of Death. Because the old had no desire to live, but did not know how to die. They had not eaten for days and did not drink, but this was not enough to sacrifice his body accustomed to the surrender to the eternal sleep. The dog was dead, there in the corner his body looked like a monument to all that he had loved and who was now living only in memories. And the old woman wanted to turn off the memories and friends only to have the angels. And the old woman smiled, because only the angels they could bring into the house, the Angel of Death.
And this was the story that weaves the plot of the second wire. A story that waited for more of everything. And perhaps, in a network, there is not an end.
still a little in front of Lily. The fourth wire. The fourth wire was black. Black as pitch. Black as m orte. And Lily was alive would have been afraid even to approach. But Lily was dead. Lily was a ghost. It was no longer afraid of death because the death of reading, she knew, or at least so he thought. But he realized immediately that the fourth wire could hold some surprises, because while continuing to fluctuate felt heavy as lead. She seemed to be grounded even if the soft soil of the lawn was over there, far from his feet and so far that if Lily had a body you would still casts its shadow, as it makes a big cloud in the sky that passes . 
