It was September. At the Lake Como. The dance plaza, do you remember, the sky -- it didn't have a roof. You swayed gently along the pillars and walls, I've mistaken you for the wind, a warm rain, maybe Scirocco. You centered my perception. Towards you, of course. And suddenly there was nothing else but you. A solitary series of movements in space. You started to burn in on my heart, on top of the most precious memories. Naturally my veins started to flood images, reflections, shards of you. They tore meekly my flesh, they tore me up. You, your singular code of gestures, drove tremors into my ability to feel until, probably, my grave.