They thought I was talking in fact; as they were listening to me I was keeping quiet. Then I started to write. First I thought what I was supposed to keep quiet. Then I wrote a word of what I couldn't say out loud. I wrote more, they became lines and I couldn't stop writing. They became stanzas of what I couldn't tell. I want them to be a letter but they didn't fit an envelope. Then I decided to make them a book. They asked me whom I wrote this book for. Isn't it too much for somebody to give them so much meaning? They thought I wrote this book for the man in brown cardigan. In fact that book wasn't written for the man in brown cardigan. Years have flown. The man and the brown cardigan have lost their meaning. Nobody asked about the woman with curly blonde hair. What about the woman with curly blonde hair?
12 parts