Writing about cocaine is like using it. You want more and more news, more information, and as juicy as you find them, you can no longer do without them. You are addicted. Even when they are reduced to a general shape that you have already understood, these stories fascinate you with their details. And they stick in your head, until another - unbelievable but true - takes the place of the previous one. In front of you, you see the bar of addiction, which only rises, and you beg never to experience withdrawal syndrome. That's why I continue to collect them to the point of disgust, more than necessary, without being able to stop. These news are flames that spread and blind you. Deafening punches in the stomach. But why do I hear this noise only? The deeper I go into the whitened circles of hell from cocaine, the more I realize that the world does not know. There is a river that flows beneath the big cities, a river that originates from South America, passes through Africa and branches out everywhere. Men and women walk on Via del Corso and the Parisian boulevards, meet again at Times Square and walk with their heads down along the London streets. But they don't hear anything? How can they endure all this noise?

P.S.