Is this an admission an act of contrition, a joke? I'm lost. In trying too hard to keep my characters of the event, I forgot to write it. I hung my characters on the wall, hoping to see more clearly. This is not a bad idea. But I increasingly feel that I should want, is a tower, where I put my characters. Windows behind which I can draw my stories, as in the Montreal Hypertext Hotel.
Still, despite all the possible variants, my characters are limited: they are either above the impact point, below. Either in the north tower, either in the south tower. They hesitate or they will darken. They can get out, or else are doomed in advance. That's why I started to turn around: to stick to this day, these 102 minutes, seemed suddenly too difficult. But I come back. Because that's how I want to write them with me since several months. Peter, Eva, Bob, Maureen, Tilda, Donald. The present. Their present.
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