At times, old insecurities come to the fore, hand in hand with wistful memories of past lovers, loss, death and grief. At other times, I have bitter quarrels with God late into the night about sin, redemption and child-death; and when solace will not come, in despair, I run for shelter to life's true confessional—poetry.
In the silence of a nearly finished day, Margherita straddles all her years of barbed wire fences and takes the painter to her bed. At night she lies with Raffaello —such beautiful things they do together— it’s impossible to resist these pleasures.