Women float

I often use notebook as support for my drawings, like children who are learning to write. This kind of work is like an exercise for me, an exercise of memory and understanding. The track leaved by the erasable ink after the rubber has gone remind me that we can not erase all about we were a second ago, an hour ago, a year ago. Our boundaries are constantly retraced, our borders remain uncertain, because time always repaint them. When the sheet begins to moan and we feel that is going to tear under the tip, then we can change the page, if we want. But the old mistake remains with us, gives us the form we have. It 's the price to pay for the chance of return, is the price we pay for being nostalgic animals.

"Women float like men. Neither more nor less. It will be for the breast or for sense of justice. The only difference is that they do it with their eyes closed. Maybe they trust in it. Maybe they are just curious to see if sooner or later it stops and they begin to sink. A woman knows how to stay afloat. She knows how to breathe. The mother is the first to know when you stop breathing. My mom saw me when I stopped breathing, turned around and amen. I waited until she got to the door. I already felt no more fingertips and my cheeks had turned blue. I said to myself: I expect mom arrives at the door and I'll do it, it will be amazing, but I’ll do it. What do I do? I call her.
Mom Mom Mom Mom.
Even if I lay on the snow, even if I fell into the fire, I could not become harder so, in the end, after all the time I needed. Here I am. A knot of bones. These are my lovely bones, you said so? Just them: they bend and discover their great fortune, to be nude. The time is right: after long years of silence and shit, after so many wasted waits, we’re gladly waiting for the dog who takes us away."