EPISODE 15 – I WROTE A LETTER
- Enzo
- Mar 8
- 5 min read
SONG
I WROTE A LETTER - Alpha Feet Mafia
LYRICS
I WROTE A LETTER - Alpha Feet Mafia
The paper waited beneath my hand
A quiet ache, a hunger I withstand
He sat outside, his feet on the stool
I watched him through the glass and wood
He sat like stone, his shoulders broad and still
The sunlight carved his back with patient skill
His chest rose slow, a rhythm deep and known
A monument of muscle, flesh, and bone
I looked away and felt so small
The page was empty, waiting for it all
I wrote his name, unsure what I could say
And hoped the truth would find its way
I wrote a letter, a letter to a god
His force runs heavy through my blood
I wrote a letter, some paper, ink and awe, yeah
To still the heat I can't withstand
He leaned back, his head against the wall
His feet were dusted, resting after all
The soles were broad
A masterpiece of art
They called out to
My burning heart
I wrote again
I told him what I craved
The place below, the peace I never saved
About devotion to his beautiful toes
Just truth, the wish to worship a god
I wrote a letter, a letter to his feet
Where earth, my eyes, and longing meet
I wrote a letter, a letter low and still
To praise the pull that shapes my will
I wrote a letter, a letter to a god
His shape, his ground, the path I trod
I wrote a letter, a letter pure, unplanned
And left my soul there through my hand
STORY
Giorgio sat outside, on his chair, his feet on the stool, barefoot.
The sun was already high, the air shimmered slightly, and deep inside me that familiar feeling returned again. Not pain. Not really. Rather hunger. An immense hunger for him.
I sat at the small desk by the window. A blank sheet of paper lay before me, the old pencil in my hand. I did not know how one begins when one does not know what one is allowed to say. But I knew that I had to write. Not for him. For me.
I looked out toward him.
Giorgio sat there like stone, broad and still. Not a single unnecessary muscle moved. Only the sun rested on his chest. He breathed slowly, heavily. He seemed like a monument, like a man who wants nothing and yet to whom everything belongs. He does not have to do anything for it. His calm alone is enough.
I lowered my gaze and wrote.
“Giorgio, your calm strikes me every time I see you. You do not need to speak and you do not need to move. You do not even try to be seen, and yet everything about you draws my eyes. Your breath slowly lifts your chest. You simply breathe, and it feels as if the world belongs to you. When I watch you like this, I feel something inside me give way, as if my own will grows quieter, as if only yours should matter to me, how deeply I wish to belong to you.”
I paused. The words lay heavy on the paper. Not exaggerated. Only true.
I looked out at him again. He had leaned back, his head now resting against the wall behind him, his feet relaxed on the stool. The soles were lightly dusted, and yet they seemed strangely attractive.
I felt my stomach tighten, a quiet tingling rising in my throat. His feet drew my gaze. Not loudly. Not crudely. Something deeper. Something that could not be explained. Something almost magical, laying open all my forbidden thoughts and pushing them toward truth.
I continued writing.
“I do not know why it is your feet that will not let me go. They rest on the stool, wide and firm, as if God himself had shaped them. The dust of the field still lies on your large, broad soles. I see the lines of your skin, the tension of your large toes, the weight of your feet. My gaze remains there, and I imagine myself slowly kneeling before you, my head lowered until my eyes are level with your soles, until I see nothing but the dust of your steps. I do not want to stand beside you. Not in front of you. I wish to be beneath you and quietly feel the warmth of your great soles; the thought alone makes my heart beat faster.”
I set the pencil down for a moment. I had never felt so open and so truthful. I breathed in slowly and looked outside again.
Giorgio had just raised his large hands and placed them behind his head. The movement made his shoulders shift, the muscles sliding beneath sun-tanned skin, calm and natural. His hairy armpits came into view, his chest expanded, and his breathing deepened.
Everything about him was physical, heavy, real.
And yet there was no strain.
He simply sat there, a man like I had never seen before and of whom there would probably never be another.
I picked up the pencil again and continued writing.
“And then I see your hands. They are so large and strong. I imagine them lowering, touching my head and holding it. Firm. Guiding. As if they decided how close I may or must come to you. As if they determined what I am to do. The thought makes my heart beat faster. It is my wish to serve you alone. Let me be the one who may do it. My soul and my destiny belong to you alone. You are the master and I your possession.
A quiet, obedient servant whom you may call whatever you wish.”
I could have written hundreds of pages more. But my wishes had only a secondary meaning. In truth they had none at all. His will alone mattered. I wanted to be his servant. Only that. I wanted to serve and to be used.
So I placed the final period and set the pencil down.
The letter was finished. For the first time everything stood there, gathered in one place, without escape, without hiding.
It felt good.
I looked at the paper, then outside again.
Giorgio still sat in the sun, unchanged, calm, as if he knew nothing of the storm that had just turned into words here inside.
And now only one question remained.
How would this letter reach him?
There were no mailboxes here like in New York.
If he was to read it, I would have to give it to him.
Or place it somewhere where his feet would find it.
The Shepherd Flute Mix
I wanted to create an uptempo version of this song that includes a typical Sicilian instrument. Flutes have been part of the island’s rural musical tradition for centuries and are closely connected to the simple, pastoral life of Sicily. The shepherd’s flute in particular seems to fit this piece very well, because its sound carries something ancient and calm. In the story, Enzo almost worships the man sitting outside as if he were a higher figure. The simple, original tone of the shepherd’s flute emphasizes this feeling of reverence, silence, and devotion.
