Low Ground Pressure

Voicemail service. The number you have dialed may be switched off or unreachable. Please leave a message after the tone.
Beep.
Hey, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve tried to call you.
I’d love to come and see you, so you can finally show me your creations. I ran into your neighbors—they told me you’d been hauling heavy materials around. Who knows what you’re building this time. I hope it goes better than the last one, but maybe you don’t even care whether it works out. I never did find out where you get those objects.
I feel so uneasy right now—I don’t even know if you’re already gone. If you are, you might never come back. This message would be left without an addressee, stuck in your voicemail. I imagine my voice locked inside a machine forever, like an animal pacing in a loop inside a zoo cage. Humanity seems to be moving in every direction, searching for something—or someone. And yet it ends up alienating itself, losing touch with itself.
I’ve been thinking about that spring night when we talked until dawn. As the years go by, I feel more and more adrift; everything around us, instead of giving us the tools to imagine a better future, seems only to disorient us further. How do you get out of this conspiracy of mental labyrinths? I wish I could be like you. That peculiar kind of neo-fatalistic vision of yours feels like a successful escape—unlike my earlier attempts, which failed.
You live in the in-between, in the “during”: I can feel your heartbeat from far away. Each pulse feeds a collective breath of survival. You know everything is over, but rather than letting it crush you, you seem to whisper—without much effort—it is what it is.
I can’t help but go along with your clear-eyed, wary attitude. Unlike you, though, I feel like I’m giving in. How do you manage not to? You’re able to decide how to live, what visions to take on in the face of the fate ahead of us. I can’t.
One day, maybe, I’ll understand your restlessness and your orbiting in search of an answer. I hope you’ll find it—and that it won’t remain only a latent hope. At that point, there won’t be any need for big speeches. A signal will be enough. Any signal at all.
Tuuuuu.

Permanent Loss of Signal
Valerio D'Angelo
Niccolò Giacomazzi
2026-02-04
2026-03-15
thu fri sat
Manuel Montesano