Margherita sulle corna

—In the middle of an argument with itself, a small hand plucks a flower petal as if testing a law. The hand belongs to someone who carries horns and an unchildlike calm; the gesture belongs to a child of habit. That collision is not a riddle to be solved but a measure: how much of a thing can remain its own while borrowing the ordinary motions of another.

The chair receives the intruder without instruction; the horizon beyond the window keeps its slow insistence. Between the two, the daisy offers a protocol — an economy of yes and no that neither erases difference nor seals it away. The horned head does not become a chair, the upholstery does not become horned; yet a new seam is stitched where touch, suspense, and habit coincide.

A system that lets a stranger quiet itself into domestic routine will reveal itself not in definitions but in the small debts it begins to pay. When the last petal is taken, something about belonging has shifted—subtle, unpaid, and not wholly visible—just enough to make the room ask for a different kind of return.