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Writing about cocaine is like consuming it. You want to know more and more about it, to gather new information, but it turns out to be so juicy that you can no longer live without it. You are addicted. The stories contain details that amaze us again and again, although they always follow the same predictable pattern. Some stories penetrate deep into your brain and remain there until a new and even more incredible story, which turns out to be true, takes the place of the previous one. That is why I keep collecting new stories. So many that it makes me dizzy. More than I need to. I can't stop. The stories I hear are like exploding flames of fire, like deafening punches to the stomach. Why am I the only one hearing these sounds? The more cocaine-white my days become, the more I begin to realize that other people are completely unaware of it. There is a river flowing under big cities. It starts in South America, flows through Africa and branches out from there all over the world. Women and men walk along the Corso or the boulevards of Paris, they meet in Times Square and walk, heads down, through the alleys of London. Can't they hear anything? How can they stand this noise?

Roberto Saviano (born 1979) contributes to various newspapers in Italy and elsewhere in the world. His first book, Gomorrah (born 2009), has been translated into 42 languages ​​and was made into a film of the same name in 2008.