Micol Martinelli

The Night

“Lost!...Lost!...Lost!...Where the hell did I lose it!” On the nightstand where he would usually leave it. Not there. He couldn’t stop swearing as he turned the house upside down looking for his precious possession, the little notebook with all his notes, his sketches, his superstitious belief that all his creativity was collected in that black object, in its pages filled with markings and words, unrepeatable, irretrievable.