Papin e la perdita dell' uovo

An attempt to turn the golden cover into a lead voice: we should listen to the voice of objects that always know more than us, as mindful shells from distant waters, rich of histories. I simply made use of a sound sample taken from a pot cover of my kitchen, and do quite the entire work on the electronic elaboration of this sample, so "i do the covers, not the pots" (the opposite action from a modern Devil escaped from an italian popular proverb), with a little addition of my voice and a violin voice too. Please hear not here, look without took, don't expect anything you don't know yet don't rewind but don't forget don't look at the finger soon, please look at the ringer moon. I like the cover pots, i don't like the core nuts. Hear the cover voice, near a rover choice: "don't mind the rust, don't rust the mind now is clear all that you'll find". My hat is a mirror, tur(n)ing ideas into c-louds. A lazy cut on a pillow, a screw he's so crazy proud. of. I have a cover, forth one note green about color, for (k)not to one knows. And what if they had a lied to us? There where it reboils a heavy heart, and so the air becomes gilded f(r)og, a pair of her ropes, than the mute child lady, jumping her (h)airy metal cogs. Our things have no names keys of the memory drawers same: My cover's the mirror that brakes the invention, preventing the words great nearer intention, to fly away - far from the sense - next to the attends.