no longer stops looking at to spend the time. I am an adult now. I have obligations, responsibilities, a child. Nevertheless, it continues to pass this screwed-up time, to spin, to flee. Quickly what's more. A time without pity, that leaves pads here, flabby one there, wrinkles to places that one believed well under cover. A time that returns the gray hair when it does not leave them to fall all simply. A time that does to make moldy the fruit and to disappear from the friends. A time that blocks us the back, a morning as that, to the to get up of the bed. A time that renders painful a race that one did nevertheless yesterday again, to smile it at the lips. A time that succeeds in student the apéritif of formerly to the row of olympic cook. This cursed time that has children the ados, ados of the adults, and adults of the stupid ones. Time that I no longer have. Menfin, more also often.

And here that aujourd’hui, I in had, time. Then I go to armed coffee of my notebook of grades, of a pen and of a Raymond Carver. To write, read, look at, savor this time to me you only, well decided to keep it a wisp, knowing strong although it will flow between my fingers.

As soon as sit, I prick the Newspaper of Monrial on the table of side issue, leafs through it quickly, then I begin looking for the eight differences between two same not funny drawings.