A voluntary confinement surrounded by books and paper.A voluntary confinement. Surrounded by books, some on the orderly shelf, others piled up on the floor. I need my work routine: silence, the smell of old books, sitting down at the same time every day. The curtain half-open. The door closed. The table overrun by unfinished texts, ideas waiting to be re-read, crossed out and corrected. Hours spentwriting and erasing, the tireless search for words that will haul me to inspiration.
HEART OF FLOWERS
SMOKE OF A CIGARETTE