Thursday, August 9


We pretend that you've never been here before. And that I follow you into the living room, and sit down in a new spot on the sofa, because you sat down where I usually sit. Then we can pretend that you smile at me and ask if I can make some coffee. Then you turn toward the window, and try to look at the stream of people passing by.

"Where's everyone going?"

I pretend that I can't hear you, that I have to come closer. So I sit on the armrest behind you. Then I push the hair back from your face and say you have to ask again.

"Tell me a story."

 Then we pretend that I tell you the story you like so much, about the old man and his diary. About the white hair of his head, and the brown comb in the back pocket of his corduroys. I talk about all the languages ​​he learned, and where in the world he has been. I laugh at you and say that it would be easier to talk about the places he hasn't been. Then I tell you about the part where he writes that he doesn't want to anymore, because there is nothing more to see.

We pretend that you want to see his diary. So I take you into the bedroom and show you the bookcase.

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