Reading an old friend's diary. He’s gone – deceased – passed away – dead (thanks George). But – as I’d say if I was more sentimental (as sentimental as I used to be) – he is still living in my heart.

Lines after lines, written in his remarkably sophisticated (a little bit harsh but honest) style: he’s writing about me.

About our conflicts (at the time I didn’t recognize them – he was a sophisticated champ, as I told you), about my self-centered universe. That I just couldn’t understand that there’s life out there (we call it society); that I’m not Exupériy’s Little Prince with my only rose on my own planet.

That I was selfish and ignorant: a fool.

I’m reading his words and have to say he was right. I was on the wrong trail for quite a long time. Thanks R. And thanks again.