Who are you Miraya Miraya? You have written to us many times, inspired letters, crazy letters. You have an unfathomable thirst for being published, an overflowing creativity, but above all an endless rage. What drives you, Miraya Miraya? What do you eat? Have you experienced the misfortune of a sad birth or a bad life? Have you covered your skin so much with impulsive tattoos that you lost the sense of each one? In what putrid sewer did you sell the little soul you had left, for the first time? On which bed covered with infamous stains had you been sodomized by local dogs, for the first time?

I looked for traces of you, behind that assumed name, everywhere, like Modiano, you know? No, you don’t know, you don’t know Modiano. I looked for you in this Thessaloniki hotel near the harbor; in this hospital for people of bad life near Vincennes; in this pension where the anonymous alcoholics die after leaving San Francisco; in this wild distillery from Calcutta, next to the stinking cremation area; in this squat of drug addicts at the far end of the underground car park at Lausanne train station. Nowhere have I found you, Miraya Miraya. Nowhere. And for good reason: your body has already been swinging at the end of a rope for two weeks. Your body had rotten, horrible corpse blistered with yourself. Your head – your pretended head – was on the verge of rolling on the ground swarming with colonies of cockroaches. Poor transformation of you, already wasted in your lifetime.

Or did the new plague kill you and you collapsed suddenly on the ground in the sea market of Wuhan or Lombardy? Miraya Miraya, who the fuck are you? Are you Roberto P.? A disgusting, tobacco chewing mafia lord or seller of bodies? A pimp who invented the woman Miraya Miraya like men often imagine, like Breton imagined Nadja, do you know about Breton, Roberto? There is no difference between the two of you. I looked for you in homes of foolish, stupid women; I looked for you in the wombs of three naked women; between the legs of a man with a huge erection from Viagra; in the sidestreets where young men like you often stand with a bloodied knife in their hands; in pig stys; in the stinking pile of biohazardous trash; in overcrowded hospitals; in a stack of rotting corpses; in the pages of porn writers; in the filthy homes of clean married couples; in the poisonous hearts of mothers. Nowhere have I found you, Roberto P. Nowhere have I found your bitch Miraya Miraya, nowhere have I found your decaying corpse of a soul. You will be killed by a murderer whose face you will not even be able to glimpse, or perhaps – no, certainly – you are already dead in the sands of Costina, your body will never be found. Only someday, someone will smell something bad. 

…

M & Mrs Hyde are the two tantric and trashy sides of a forgotten soul, with frequent Jungian mood, tiny red spot obsession, Bombay Sapphire passion, frequent insomnia, recurrent headaches, taste for Darjeeling, and fascination for words. Always travelling from East to West, and inversely.