I waken and gather from the mirror that I wasn´t born yesterday. The thing is to buy time so that you can bear to lose everything you must. To give up an hour a day for doing anything by all the rules of the art: Iron your shirt. Learn a really difficult poem by heart. What is more pitiful than our constant leaving? As if we hadn´t been uprooted once and for all. I don´t try to tell myself I´m born anew each morning just because each day is as if newly born. But then, trees hardly dream of me as I do of them.