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  • "He used to collect butterflies. Now he jealously kept pieces of medical prescriptions inside the display cases. Some were accurately prescribed, others were stolen, or were rare scrolls of extinct diseases. A remarkable collection: expensive medicines for the cure of prestigious and often completely unknown diseases. The red skin of Mr. Madfly flaked upon his allergic forehead, perpetually lacereted by pollen. The aroma of flowers stunned him, and maybe that was the beginning of his most exclusive hunt. He gave up the opulent, elegant and useless insects, in favour of something more intimate.

    He hoarded prescriptions, overstating the disorder in one or two of them and collecting, with the magnifying glass, various kinds of spasms. A cramp turned into gangrene and the Flu became a tumor placed between the scapula and the spine. For each prescription a drug, prescribed for illnesses that the collector treated, increasing their implications. He had overcome even the most lethal ones. He covered himself with dung, urine, blood, and there were no lack of blindness and abdominal pains, vomiting, red or yellow skin, or most often a delicate pallor: a kaleidoscope! By torturing himself, he escaped from a deeper evil. He dramatically rode the pain, the faithful wing to escape He wasn't afraid of the institute, but of the flower illusions and the beasts that were hidden there. He wanted to slough his skin. On the wall there hung the valuable prescriptions that caused vertiginous thrills and slight butterfly flights. The small brown squares marked the wall, climbing up to the ceiling, filling the corners with little frames. The coughs alternated with screams, to explore viral regions, tuberculosis and suppurated sores. Finally everything ceased,after his sickness was exhausted he was back to being an ordinary man with an eccentric collection as a vice. He meticulously arranged the showcases, he dusted and shined the glass, revealing a narcissistic spirit. He changed the frames, he moved groups of diseases to form an innovative sort of medical reserves. If nurses and doctors hadn't complied with the wonderful acting, he would have no motive and means to represent it. Each pathology contained considerable elements. Doctors examined the combinations, congratulating themselves for the delicateness of the work. They wrote prescriptions for him, distributing drugs to test them. The patient clutched his blanket, leaving greasy marks of black bile. He was vain: the collection needed its interlocutor. What's the pleasure of collecting butterflies, without pinning the eyes on the pierced wings, frozen in a flight without a resolution?"



    Un tempo collezionava farfalle. Adesso custodiva gelosamente stralci di ricette all’interno delle teche. Alcune accuratamente prescritte, altre trafugate, o rare pergamene di mali estinti. Una raccolta notevole: medicinali cari per la cura di malattie prestigiose o spesso del tutto sconosciute. La pelle arrossata del signor Madfly screpolava sulla fronte allergica, perennemente lacerata dai pollini. L’aroma dei fiori lo stordiva, e forse fu quello l’inizio di una caccia più esclusiva. Abbandonò gli insetti sfarzosi, eleganti e inutili, a favore di qualcosa di più intimo.

    Faceva incetta di ricette mediche, ingrandendo il disturbo di una o due e con la lente, collezionando spasmi di vario genere. Un crampo diventava una cancrena e l’influenza arrotolava un tumore fra la scapola e la colonna vertebrale. Ogni ricetta un farmaco, prescritti per malattie che il collezionista curava, crescendone i risvolti. Aveva superato anche le più letali. Si era ricoperto di letame, urina, sangue, non erano mancate cecità e dolori addominali, vomito, pelle gialla, rossa o più spesso un pallore delicato: un caleidoscopio! Seviziandosi, sfuggiva un male più profondo. Cavalcava platealmente il dolore, ala leale per la fuga. Non temeva l’istituto, ma le illusioni floreali e le bestie che vi si annidano. Desiderava una muta. Sulla parete pendevano le preziose ricette che avevano procurato trasalimenti vertiginosi e lievi voli di farfalla. I quadretti bruni scandivano il muro, salendo fino al soffitto, riempiendo li angoli di cornicette. I colpi di tosse alternavano le urla, esplorando regioni virali, tubercolosi e piaghe suppurate. Infine tutto cessava, esaurito il suo malessere tornava ad essere un uomo qualunque col vizio di una collezione eccentrica. Disponeva meticolosamente le teche, toglieva la polvere, lucidava il vetro, rivelando uno spirito narcisistico. Cambiava cornici, spostava gruppi di malattie formando cernite del tutto innovative delle riserve mediche. sé gli infermieri e i dottori non avessero accondisceso la mirabile recita, non avrebbe avuto motivo e mezzi per rappresentarla. Ogni patologia conteneva elementi vistosi. I dottori osservavano gli accostamenti, congratulandosi per la delicatezza del lavoro. Gli scrivevano ricette, distribuendo farmaci per testarli. Il paziente stringeva la coperta, lasciando impronte grasse di bile nera. Era vanitoso: la collezione necessitava dell'interlocutore. Che piacere c’è nel collezionare farfalle, senza appuntare gli occhi sulle ali trafitte, congelate in un volo senza soluzione?
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