Memory of my twenty, twenty-one years. I am alone and arrive in a kind of boarding house, in the Paris region. I had booked for three days. There is no one there except the owner. The establishment is tiny, but with an incredible number of rooms, small corridors and staircases. Everything is warm, wooded, with lots of little knick-knacks. A real doll's house, and a family house at the same time – a family house such as I have never known in my life and probably never will. The idea strikes me. Once in the room, I start to cry, without really knowing why; both with sadness and relief to finally be in such a place.
No comments:
Post a Comment