You never know how things will turn out. One day you're with your girlfriend's friend, explaining to her that you're not at all into people who smile all the time, while your girlfriend's friend smiles at you in the same way as your philosophy teacher: laughing at you. And the next day, around 25 years later, you decide that the love of your life is your ex-girlfriend's friend whose smile still expresses irony every time she sees you in your shared lover's flat.

Sincerely, I never saw coming that just two years later you would leave all my books in the rain and that you would write a newspaper article criticising the lifestyle of "a poetry addict". Nor did I expect that you would say goodbye to me as one says goodbye to a dead man: in silence and with your eyes fixed on the horizon.

I believe that the indifference made its presence felt from the first moment when, of the 27,000 daily words that you express orally, 5,000 remained soundless in the air like those imprisoned in parentheses that inhabit the texts of writers enslaved by the fear of expressing their truth. Today I realise that knowing was always within my reach. That an artist is cruel, that she never stays in the same place for long, that she experiments, that she is passionate, that she questions and criticises. That she takes what she wants and discards the leftovers. That her muses are the happiest people in the world until she decides the playdate is over.