Francesco Bucci lives more at night and in the morning, less in the afternoon. He is always running late. But, usually, he ends up being on time.
He was born as an adult. After he was born, he died. Now he is slowly becoming a child. Like in a flux, becoming is his living. He is alive. Like a cup of coffee that is too hot at first and that becomes too cold later, he is alive: the process of becoming makes him alive.
He started playing piano after falling in love. He was six. At age 7, he wrote his first song, a bad one. After the first bad song, he wrote many more really bad songs, even worse than the first one.
He studied and learned, but never enough.
There have been several turning points in his life. None of them is the most important one. If we really look closely, the most important one is now, it’s always now. It is the present that injects the biggest amount of existence in his life.
Right now, as the morning is transforming the colors of the night, Francesco Bucci is driving his white car. He’s almost home. And he is listening to his most recent songs, the only ones he likes to sing.
He would like to write more about himself, but he knows that no one would read a bio that is too long.
So… it’s ok.
