Dinner in the garden with Stan

I have not written for a while, because my mind was busy with this feeling of emptiness. This feeling that leaves you unable of anything, this feeling that seems to mean death, this feeling that leaves hope far behind.

I’ve had a long dinner with my French housemate Stan this evening. A table surrounded with satisfying food, marinated Brazilian chicken from the Brazilian Butcher in Tottenham and fried “Frites Maison” – that’s how French call “les grosses frites”, or “C’est comme ça qu’on dit, en français”....

After the Spanish white wine he had chilled two much, Stan’s conversation was more honest and less of a French brain-washing. We’ve been drinking the whole white wine, although Stan did not like it, thinking it had not breath enough. Thus I did not tell him that simply leaving the bottle opened on the table would not do any good to the wine and is not what we call breathing. We have lightened the candles twice, since the flame had died. We have taken out blankets in the cold of the night.

We have talked of life, because life is actually the most interesting subject to share in the darkness of a garden...