I do not always have enough time for being an amateur. One has to do so many different kinds of things, it is exhausting. I am going on a self declared holiday. Last minute. I will clear up my studio and paint things white. Or at least try to paint things white, the paintings as well. I can call them ‘Compositions in white’, whether they are white or not. That is not my problem. I met this artist during an exhibition in a chapel. I recognized her as my art teacher on highschool. Her artworks are familiar with mine so it was very nice to meet her. She lives above the café where I used to go with my father, me drinking a chocolate milk, wondering how the glasses with beer didn’t fell over because of the thick wobbly carpets on the tables. She told me she was invited by a Parisian gallery. Today I am going to read a Grammaire fondamentale, fondée sur le français fondamental. I am going home. Stop. For the third time today I told the same story. I am hesitating to tell you about it here. Because it is such an important story. I wished I was born fifteen years ago. I wish words do not have to be written, that they flow from mind to mind. I flutter from book to book, from language to language. Everything is equally interesting. Maybe when I manage to clear the water I will manage to stick with one book ( or two, a novel and a book on economics by Thomas Piketty ) and one language ( or two ). Auntie this behavior of an addict? If this is the case I might be in terrible need of professional help. If I only was a boy.
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