‘I belong to a people in decline. Un popolo che cade. A decadent people. I belong to a people who have seen the light thanks to the migration of other human beings. My name is Simone. I crossed the mountains. I passed through the mountains. I walked through the mountains and I thought. I thought of my old man, the grandfather, my father’s father. My grandmother used to tell me that the old man, in the mountains, whistled with the wind. I imagined him. I felt him walking through me. I felt my breath bring him to life for the space of a dream, and I thought. I thought and I dreamed of speaking the language of the mountains. It’s hard to tell when you meet someone on your path whether they’re heading towards their destination or running away. Running away isn’t necessarily about shouting yourself hoarse as you run. There is a much slower, more gradual kind of running away. When I left my country, I wasn’t alone. I’m searching. I’m constantly searching for the last words he said to me before he left. If I were to trace the path we took with a pencil, it would be a long road, una lunga strada. La lunga strada di rabbia. I’d like to give them back to him, his words, le sue parole.’