Who else

Could it be true that Edgar Allan Poe killed the poor Mary Rogers? The twnety-one years old girl was found with her hands tighted on her back when the body was found on the Hudson river. It was then the year 1841.

No matter if this is true or not, we are left with this consideration: what's really fiction among all the fictious stories we are left with? When it comes to aliens, vampires, witchcraft and so, it's easy to use the very laws of nature as a judge of the author's creativity. But what about strange stories that, no matter who improbable, are still plausible?

Sitting here, looking toward the horizon far away in this nice and soft noon, I feel that in fact I like these doubts. I like living with some possibilities in my mind instead of a bunch of strictly defined facts. It reminds me that I, myself, am not condemned to let all my imaginations forever locked inside. Some of them can come out, the world allowing or not, knowing or not, caring about it or not.

Nature is a very gentile hostess that allows us more than we imagine at first...