I’ve tried to shape my loneliness. I wanted to give to my solitude a physical place where it could have expressed itself, resonating and amplifying with what was around without feeling guilty. I went to the only place in my mind where solitude is a condition and not a disgrace. I went to Siberia because I felt so alone. I needed to be solitary, on my own but not in the sense of being alone. Exiling mymself in order not to find out where I was, rather exiling myself in order to find out what I was missing. I needed to share an home intimacy with strangers and witness others people’s solitude to cure mine. This was the cure I had in mind for me. I travelled by train, I walked, I hitch-hiked without planning anything, trying to be as instinctive as possible. I allowed my sensations and my fears to drive me up to remote and forgotten villages. Direction did not even matter anymore. I walked, and when I saw a lineament, a scar, a tattoo or a certain fatigue that transpired a story that scared or interested me then I got closer and with a note with few words written in Russian asked for a place to stay for the night. Every cure has its rules. Mine was simple. Never spend more than three days with the same people. I was a pendulum. Every time I felt comfortable and safe in somebody home that was the moment to leave. Life is a pendulum. Be accepted once would not have been enough. This was the cure I had in mind for me. I’ve suffered. Some cures are painful. Nick Drake would have probably called this a troubled cure for a troubled mind. I realized loneliness has no shape.