Writing about cocaine is like using it. You want more and more news, more information, and as the ones you find are juicy, you can no longer do without them. You are addicted.

Even when they are reduced to a general framework that you have already understood, these stories enchant 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 pray never to experience withdrawal syndrome. That’s why I continue to collect them to a degree of disgust, more than necessary, unable to stop.

This news is flames that spread and blind you. Deafening punches to the stomach. But why do I hear this noise only? The deeper I descend into the whitewashed circles of hell, the more I realize that the world does not know.

There is a river that flows beneath the great cities, a river that originates from South America, passes through Africa, and branches everywhere. Men and women walk on Via del Corso and the Parisian boulevards, meet again in Times Square, and walk with their heads down along the London avenues. But don’t they hear anything? How can they endure all this noise?