Duck cold

I am nailed to the house because I am waiting for the delivery of building materials. I have made room to accommodate the planks and gypsum panels, I will sell my chairs, maybe my TV that I never open. I have the taste of a clean table to rebuild better. Not to mention voluntary simplicity, I would still like a beautiful space for my demons to express themselves.

This is, of course, a way of speaking. I don’t know these demons, I don’t let them talk much. I am not driven by an urgent urge to create. There’s a little maturity in there, a little old age. But I know that they are there, that they often hand me small pieces of paper as messages. Most of the time, I have a hard time understanding them, but I persist.

I have this intuition that I have to open the floodgates wide, to be silent too, to reconcile myself with my soul, the one who doesn’t go to churches. I persist, I tell you, dear few readers. May the universe (which doesn’t give a shit) witness it.

It is undoubtedly freezing outside, I tasted it when I cleaned my steps and stairs. I would have liked another walk, but for now, I’m going back to my programming, to my layouts. The self-employed worker is a strict boss.