Lucio Freni

A neurodivergent man on a Harley Davidson, a fake Facebook identity, a gun in his bag, and a woman who reads poetry. A sensory noir that oscillates between the visceral rage of Céline and the geometric labyrinths of Borges. The poems hidden inside are dangerous — because poets are always trusted, and trust is exactly how the hunter catches his prey.

A man is erased from the System by a bureaucratic error. Without his identification number, he cannot work, call, pay, be imprisoned, or even be killed — the rifle won't fire without a number. The System that controls everything cannot process its own mistake. Dystopian satire in the tradition of Kafka and Orwell, but more desperate and funnier — because the protagonist is not a hero, he's a 350-pound man who just wants to watch the football match.

Dialogues with Death, Kafkaesque parables about justice systems built to drown their own sentences, invisible men on trains nobody sees, and the confession that if I didn't write, it would be as if I had never existed. Humor as cognitive method. Digression as load-bearing structure.

Letters from a soldier to his wife during an unnamed war. Raw stream of consciousness: what the letter says and what the parentheses confess are two different truths. Boots stolen from corpses, chess games before suicide missions, a piano and a trumpet playing broken jazz in an enemy's barn. In the tradition of Remarque and Céline.

Faith, guilt, and the absurdity of existence in collision. The title is both an accusation and a prayer.

Autobiography refracted through fiction. A life told not as it was, but as it felt from inside a neurodivergent mind.

Not a polemic — a neuroscience investigation. Peer-reviewed studies on neural entrainment, dopamine and musical pleasure, the measurable decline of harmonic complexity in popular music. Trap isn't the cause of anything. It's a symptom. Or maybe a mirror. It's not atrophy from damage. It's atrophy from disuse.