I really liked that time where I went out with you to get your cigarettes. And the time we went at dusk and I took some pictures in black and white. Some cactuses again. I still haven’t processed that film. I love this memory the same way I love all our random memories, those moments of nothing, where nothing is said or on the contrary our most memorable conversations start. We do little things, and some of them sometimes mark me deeper. Mind tattoos one might say. I’ll say it, they’re tattoos on my mind, delicate indelible pictures. They look like Jean Cocteau’s drawings too. The time we fought on the car, it’s the friend sleeping, the other Jean. The time you asked for you toasts to be French, it’s the seated lady with no face. It became quite a nice library.
My beautiful picture
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