Duck cold

I am nailed to the house because I am wait­ing for the deliv­ery of build­ing mate­ri­als. I have made room to accom­mo­date the planks and gyp­sum pan­els, I will sell my chairs, maybe my TV that I nev­er open. I have the taste of a clean table to rebuild bet­ter. Not to men­tion vol­un­tary sim­plic­i­ty, I would still like a beau­ti­ful space for my demons to express themselves.

This is, of course, a way of speak­ing. I don’t know these demons, I don’t let them talk much. I am not dri­ven by an urgent urge to cre­ate. There’s a lit­tle matu­ri­ty in there, a lit­tle old age. But I know that they are there, that they often hand me small pieces of paper as mes­sages. Most of the time, I have a hard time under­stand­ing them, but I persist.

I have this intu­ition that I have to open the flood­gates wide, to be silent too, to rec­on­cile myself with my soul, the one who does­n’t go to church­es. I per­sist, I tell you, dear few read­ers. May the uni­verse (which does­n’t give a shit) wit­ness it.

It is undoubt­ed­ly freez­ing out­side, I tast­ed it when I cleaned my steps and stairs. I would have liked anoth­er walk, but for now, I’m going back to my pro­gram­ming, to my lay­outs. The self-employed work­er is a strict boss.