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When you find yourself for the first time at this abandoned factory you get lost. You disappear in simple quadrangular space, as it were an infinite void. You get lost in colour of rusty pieces of iron going beyond the depth of field boundaries, sparkling by anxious variety of colour under monochrome dust which decided to stay here after long working hours of marble blocks dressing and shamelessly sprawled all around. You get lost in the nervously trembling rays of light passing through the holes of the cheapest roof in the world – they are constantly moving, recalling the time in which you are also irretrievably lost already. Involuntarily you reflect on a queer word-play: factory – fabrication (in a sense of spoofing). The morning light brings today’s bulletin board back to Quattrocento, where the texture of fresco breathes unbearably easy and free. Evening relaxation hints that it’s time to go home, and you see that, indeed, all long gone, leaving only a soft sunset, battered shoes, empty chairs, and almost religious goodness. You want to share it, and you bring your friends in. They wander in different corners, stealthily creeping on the fragments of marble slabs, talk to the light rays in rooms, where no one can phone in, and no shout can be heard. But the cry got stuck in the throat, and the next day you’re back there again, trying to beget something that pushes you so strongly from inside. Labor pains come and the something is born. It is quite another, unexpected, sometimes frightening iron, but it is your own baby. With the brainchild from the muddle in your head you ascend to the ceiling, as if to a cupola of the Duomo, from the height of which the world is seen as a ridiculous assemblage of the soap bubbles uniting, mixing up, and blending together forms and shapes. To repeat their fate, to force the smooth lines of the body against the rails and the rigid cube of stone – this desire increases to the exhaustion, in which you plump into the crooked chair, taking the only place in a parquet, and suddenly you hear a crescendo of rusty colour of the wall and its weather-beaten patches. At last, feeling able to get up, you leave, and turning back at the door you say to a sprout which shot up through stones, debris and rails – “buy, Humpty-Dumpty, don’t be sad!”