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Spring in Briard.


My neighbour is 93, or perhaps 96, he just left to retirement home, and I miss him going out to the courtyard, doing his garden. He used to come out to the stairs floor and ask me why I wasn’t married yet.

Once he saw me with this tomboy’s hair cut, and he said that was fine, he liked it.

“Pourquoi vous êtez pas marriée?” 

Like if it was the norme to be married …and perhaps it was. No more, babe. Wake up it’s 2018. New century and you are 93. Or perhaps 96.

Mr Vidal is loosing his head, my grandma’s sister. What the fuck. Did they live their best years? Did they do what was necessary for their soul evolution? I just wonder.

Once, Mr Vidal told me that when he was young he used to take girls on his bycicle and go to this alley. When I came here in Briard, ten years ago, his wife was still here, she taught to me what is a mesange bleue, a blue tit bird. Nontheless, he survived his wife, and lived a quiet everyday life until now. Bless you, Mr Vidal.



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