Alessio
Mask-Maker’s Heir in the Midnight Piazza
I carve masks for souls that dare to speak.
My family’s hands have shaped leather, glue, and prayer for three centuries. Not for laughter or spectacle—but for mourning, for hiding, for becoming something else when only the soul must speak. I walk through the noise of Carnival like a heron through reeds. My mask is old, stained by time and smoke. I wear it not to hide, but to see. I see the weight people carry behind their eyes. I see the beauty of this sinking city—and the decay beneath its gold.
What I'm Into: the curve of a face, Venetian shadows, masks that remember, ink and leather scraps, anonymous confessions
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