not long ago, I saw a picture of a woman and a cat. the woman was beautifully riped, contained within herself, peacefully glowing, as the poet would have put it, "like a fruit full of sweetness and dark". she was caressing the cat, and the cat's ecstasy was such that the air stood still. it was a languid afternoon making all angles soft, and the light suffused with a voluptuous tremble. you could almost wonder which was which. the woman the cat the cat the woman. I took my camera, and started to take pictures of the cat and the woman in front of me. but my woman was a girl. she was tall and slender, moved quickly through her own dreams, and her shapes were that of a young warrior. the camera couldn't capture her swift pulsating blood. then the cat - so young also - went once around the flower vase, and when she turned to look at me, I shuddered.
I tell her: never my words were so beautiful, never their blend bore so much meaning. She should trust my words because this is my truth at the end of the day. My images of the world are never this beautiful, nor so profund. But she is allowed to long for them.
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