Hi Matteo,

I’m writing to you from a living room that is not mine. A good, private lounge, two hours away from Bologna by high speed train and eight years from Via Zanardi. It is a Roman lounge in the suburbs with a park in front of it and a centre for the elderly that comes alive and dances in mid-afternoon: sometimes to the sound of the little orchestra and sometimes with a guy that you might call a dj, but then calling it dj for old people is a bit strange.

I’m writing to you from here because we’ve reached this point together, even if you’re in Bologna and the ones in charge in the studio are still three dogs and a cat.

I must confess that I have come at it sideways because I am a little afraid of changing, of growing up, of not remaining sufficiently naive, of not seeing enough of the world, of losing something on the way. Because you don’t just jump head first off a high speed train and maybe you don’t just jump head first off the six of us either. And while the world wonders how to decide what is right and what is not, for me – for us – what always remains is the strain and the uncertainty of whether we have made the right choice, every day and every time the right choice.

Maybe I didn’t ever even want to do this job because I have never really known how to behave with people, with other people there in front of you, listening to you and looking right at you. I’ve always liked the radio because you’re kind of alone with yourself or with the others you are sharing the space with at that time. The viewer is somewhere else and you can almost pretend they’re not there. I didn’t think I could make records and play on tour, doing it with the continuity required in order to define it using the word career. Now.

One thing I have convinced myself of over these years – probably wrongly – is that if we had been able to predict this we wouldn’t have done it, whereas we had the good fortune and the ability to imagine it, and the imagination, as such, is imponderable and indefinite. At a certain point, imagination adapts itself to reality by justifying it, making it, in turn, into something acceptable and pleasant. For me the turning point was the fact that I have never experienced a turning point: the fact that I have never felt for a moment the atrocity of not wondering how it might turn out if we were still together tomorrow.

I believe that all these years of hard work have served us well but I also think that you shouldn’t rest on your laurels, believing that your experience will suddenly become a compass. As soon as I felt that my compass was clearly showing me the road I should be taking in some aspects of life, I decided that  I had to distance myself from the paths I’d already travelled, and do what we have always done: venture in our own direction.

While I was writing those words, a song by Riccardo Sinigallia called “Amici nel tempo” popped into my head but the lyrics, which are very beautiful, are not right for the things I wanted to say. I’ll limit myself to just keeping the title, which seems to sums up what I wanted to say much better than the last 500 words.

This is the last sentence of this letter, in any case, we’ll talk later.

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