Winter has just begun, and it already looks like spring. It rained heavily last night; the streets are now slippery, many passers-by, despite their caution, are reduced to getting up painfully, wet clothes, and well awake. Snow looks like dirty flour, unsuitable for viewing or consumption. The air carries no particular smell, the sun succeeds in tearing the dirty cotton wool from the sky. It is a small Tuesday like any other; I am already falling asleep, sitting on my bed like an Indian woman writing these few lines. I could say that I have nothing to say because I have work to do. But I’ve already said a lot.
My words, like this gloomy winter, try as best they can to get through the season.