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The Sound of Passion

The place
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Imagine a valley that ceases to sway because in four kilometres there’s a dam and a border. It’s the valley before you with its’ finis terrae attitude that proudly evokes ancient trade crossings, and lodging houses. Above you the mountains are swollen with snow higher than a man. Piz Bernina, Piz Quattervals, Piz Murtaröl, Scima da Saoseo - their crests draw an irascible line beyond which there’s a Prussian blue sky, the blue of deep space, air being thin up here. 

If you bring your gaze back to the ground, you see a road that sways with the same frequency of the valley. Perhaps for this reason it’s called Valley Road. There should be another kind of blue to the right, one with the green tones of Lake Livigno, and indeed there is, only it’s buried beneath a blanket of snow that also covers a layer of ice. On your left, stone walls protect the road on which entire mountains rest. Moving beneath them, what is visible becomes film, the landscape becomes alive.

So, let’s sum it up: mountains outside, a frontier before you, an iced lake on your right, a road beneath you, a car around you.

I’m just a whispering voice, you on the other hand, are living this.

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