May your answers be Yes or no, And don't try to explain the Yes or no Because every explanation It's already a compromise Julien Benda

Every idea is a seed encrypted in the garden of time, tended by the private key of the one who cultivates it and reaped as sovereign fruit by those who recognize its worth.

WE'RE ALL GOOD OR BAD GUYS ... IT ONLY DEPENDS FROM WHOM TELL THE FAIRY TALE ...

Your memory is a fruit / that drips summer in the empty afternoon. / My mouth then / map of a lost country. / Your fingers, roots of lives / on the slope of my side. / Everything is now shadow and perfume: / the geranium on the window sill, / the dry salt on the skin / of a bath that was not there.

Who ordered this cargo?

The late afternoon light had thickened in the corner of the room, a liquid honey that made the dust motes visible. I, seated on the same sofa as always, recorded the passage of the day not on a clock, but on my skin. The warmth changed, from lukewarm to hot, and then into a coolness that foretold the evening. This was the true diary: the body absorbing time, not the pen chasing after it. Yesterday, you left a book open on the armchair. This morning, I leafed through it. Your pencil underlinings were like fingerprints left on another's thoughts. I ran my fingertip over the raised paper, seeking the pressure of your hand, the direction of your gesture. That graphic, physical mark was more intimate than any word you could have written to me. It spoke of attention, of slowness, of a mind meeting another mind and leaving a secret trace. A second-degree eroticism, distilled. Then, the sound. Your step in the entrance, the jingle of keys on the marble table. I did not turn. I listened to your pause, that second of silence in which you sought me in the half-light. Hearing became the most vast skin, capable of sensing not the noise, but the intention behind it. The door to the room opened. Not a hole in the air, but a change in pressure. A wave that first lapped at my exposed ankles, then rose along my legs, my belly, until it made me hold my breath, while still staring at the same page without seeing a single letter. Desire, I understood in that instant, is not an arrow. It is a magnetic field. An alteration of space created when two bodies, even distant, recognize each other as poles. There is no need to touch. The true contact happens in the modified air between them, in that charged silence that precedes every gesture, and which contains, already perfect, all possible gestures. You said something, a triviality about traffic. Your voice was hoarse, tired. In that hoarseness, I heard the day that had passed, the words exchanged with others, the fatigue. And in that hearing, the purest desire was born: not to take, but to welcome. To be the place where that weariness could settle and become, finally, peace.

Refuse to be a silent cog in the machinery of indifference.

A text by Anaïs Nin, from the first volume of her *Diaries* (1966), covering the years 1931-1934: “We live life as we dream it, in one form or another. What strikes me is not this. It is the strength, the ferocity, the insistence with which most people give up their dreams, almost immediately. By the age of twenty, they already have an established, blocked, resigned profession, character, lifestyle. Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage. Fear makes it shrink. And I hate what is small, restricted, resigned. I rebel against greyness, pettiness, immobility. I want flow, danger, adventure, transformation, revolt.”