I love this picture of cool wind and light wine that I carry to you.
And how nice that you write on the heart that reflects my image.
Do not worry: I do not read your history as an outstanding, I just read you as I would read another blog. What are the chances
of life.
is true that I met you at a time when I was looking for how we could get out of this damn disease.
But I mostly met a man with his own history and his talent for living.
And you know, there's people who are leaving us suddenly, when everything was fine. I read a guy like that, a Parisian psychiatrist who had settled in a place I knew well and where I lived, Tarn et Garonne, a guy who had a blog, Ciscoblog. He wrote poems, told his life was wonderful pictures. And then one morning, going to work, he sprawled in the car, upside down in a river. He did not identify. Still, I go back to his world.
Me, you, behind the guy who fights against the crab, I see the man, the artist, the painter. I love your paintings. They talk.
You say you live out this period. This is essential.
Sometimes the disease disappears ... leaving room for the man ...
You know that part of France looks like Montreal, and your picture in the snow. Except that we
small and (damn) French, we do not know what to do. You let yourself quickly overwhelmed by the mantle white, then this is the general mess, train stations, airports, roads ...
Here in the Camargue, it is not snowing yet.
But we had a lot of rain. It's unusual for Christmas.
Say that at this moment, I have the children. I'm not too bad.
I often think of Peter . He gave me strength, I think.
It is always there to dictate to me words, tell me that we should not drop the case.
Men do not really die you know.
The men we loved ...
Well, I kiss you and all yours.
Have a great holiday season.
See our shepherd.
B.
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