S E I B U T S U
music composer | performer | visual artist | writer


I think that if volcano Etna is silent, 
you are instead an eruption of living music and poems.

Sylvano Bussotti


Phantome [for orchestra]: a composition really unique, esoteric and extravagant.

György Ligeti






Wait, like a lover-blade or a lover-crown that offers itself to my nocturnal and tyrannical pleasure, or paper laid to a fate unknown to the world. On that table, the reading and writing of scratched marks from a sleepless night and weeks or months yet to process and grow in desire amidst the cheerful waters pregnant with images and dreams and metaphors continuous and hungry from your smooth whiteness open to my deformed imagination. Wait a little longer, O paper in love, wait for my restless dawns and anguished delusions, wait for me who no longer know how to love you, but who still seek you among a colorful ghost and a folk drawing, among the lopsided recesses of a plot inflamed by florid and solemn ices, among the folds blackened by an endless series of painful memories and complex projects, of luminous structures and wild utopias, among the inscrutable syntagmas and your legs and wrists and thighs and my eyes that no longer know how to observe, but that devour still and always and only through you, incessantly, the projections of your pursuit of me in vain among the unbridgeable distances and miles that separate us and still nourish us, and that bloom supreme among the violent darkness of our avoidance. Wait for me, wait for me just a little longer, O desperate paper... The huge lamp that watches over you at night, O paper of emperor signs, by day replaces the sun that burns every inch, every portion of your body stretched out to the winds of storms and supreme sorrowful fantasies, O paper my beloved, paper in love... And I am stunned by this light of mine and your frequency that nauseates the senses and mental logics, with all that unrestrained marasmus of chaos and lanes, with the very precise lines and broken spirals, with the bruised lemmas and natures fragmented by childish gaiety and impuberant orgasms, by vulgar spasms and primordial steppes, in which every decimeter of uncontrolled sense is coupled with the innermost desires of us, lovers at the far, far margins, fornicating stuck at the edges of a surreal map. O beloved paper, you blast toward the unreachable heights of my world, the multifarious digits and upside-down letters, the garish numbers and butts of signs and words among illogical designs and inner architectures, among the ungainly bowels and unspeakable secrets of my overflowing existence. O beloved paper, warming the snows of my violent striding, among the silent streets of the remotest countries and the sudden chasms in which the keys of my unraveling are enclosed among the burning feelings of nothingness and childlike projections and the tireless sun-drenched and isolated journeys from you, O my beloved paper, paper in love...