This house

The walls are pink and white.
The piano is on that corner and over it, the masks stare.
Two bookshelves: Isabel Allende and Chopin.
The tic-toc sound.
"Le huitieme jour", "Trainspotting", "Les Choristes", "Nosferatu."
The freckled doll, Picasso, the Bible...

Nothing smells of you. Everything smells of me.
I know these objects. They are part of me.

This diminute world contained behind this door is mine. It should remind me of myself. I should be thinking of my childhood, and yet, every single time I step into this house, the only thing I can think about is you...