Powerful. Sad. And brutally direct.

While researching the death of Alessandro Momo, I came across an Italian article whose opening paragraph said almost everything that needed to be said. The Italians have a remarkable ability to get straight to the point — no throat-clearing, no sentimental padding, just the thing itself.

I wish I could tell you who wrote it. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to identify the author. So I can only reproduce the English translation here, and leave the original writer their anonymity.

The Asphalt Doesn’t Remember

“The asphalt doesn’t remember. So many boys have been torn apart. Crushed into the streets along with their scooters. Their skin scraped away on the road. Like an apple. Like cheese scattered over pasta.

Plastic, blood, rubber, raw flesh, the cast iron of engines. Then tar. Crushed stone. The proportions change, but this is the asphalt of Rome.

A city that lives on two wheels.

And dies on them.”