And then I read things by people I know and I think: Why the fuck not? , but after all I’m not even someone who always says fuck fuck here and there. And then I say Maybe you really are a collector too much of a collector, because then it eats you not to collect things others collect. And do you remember enough of your life? Those little little details you like so much seeing in movies, convinced no one else sees them, the millimeter in the fold of actors’ mouths, the crease in the cloth that’s not exactly right that whoknowsifitwasmeantoriftheygotitwrong, the wrong foot with which a disabled starts walking in a movie so depressing your father runs away from the cinema, maybe those details, the real ones, your ones, you don’t remember them so well. Maybe I’m a boring person, or maybe I’m a person who has too much fun to look for other things with which to have fun.

And after all I guess I don’t have a group of hooligans, crazy for the sake of it, to write me things affectedly nonsense to make me feel special but maybe never as special as them.