The light of autumn is not happening at the moment. This is indeed an advertised chronicle. We take out a warmer garment if possible waterproof. We protect ourselves more from gusts. The common cold is so easy to catch. The morning is black, the end of the day is almost as dark and we arrive home with the impression that it is time to go to bed. We’ll pull on the time zones to get some light back on. It will be sunny during the week and there will also be a lot of showers, fights, mix-ups. It is still better to get used to it, as you always do. In a month in the winter.
My season, my life, remains in a fog. I have my suns, my loved ones, and I have my grey or neutral days. I too am getting used to my winter; I aspire to escape those seasons of the mind that only make you dizzy without knowing where the boat is sailing. I look up at the veiled sky, pull up the collar of my coat. I have all these words, these dead and living leaves, that I leave in the rain. My brain is a patient tree. Almost in winter. Perhaps the soul is a slate and life a reincarnation. I’ll never fucking know anything about it, just as I’ll never know how to count the stars in the galaxy.
And I still have this pleasure in writing this absurd painting.