My Workmen’s city doesn’t exist any longer, neither does my Repressed and Depressed city. My imposed-Sacrifice-city doesn’t exist anymore, and neither does my city without Murazzi without Roman Quarter without Music or Musicians without Light without Lights; that city is no more. Instead, here’s the city I dreamt of and hoped for when I was young, and it is thriving between ingenious intuitions and unforgivable mistakes. It’s growing together with my son, and together, hand in hand, I see them finally going Elsewhere.

In my city they are digging, in my city there’s another city, “The City underneath”, and its stones are precious, and therefore lit up, and the stone-bearing men with bird-heads are metaphors of a workmen’s world, disappeared, swept away, like stones from the soil.