Try to unravel my persona, my work, my World. However, never try to unravel my heart. My heart is an attic locked, sealed, hidden and protected. Guarded in the confines of the basin of souls and defended by the most powerful spirits.
It’s in him, about him and inside him, that all magicians, sages, poets, lovers, fairies and angels deposit their ideas, their sorrows, their projects of glory, their interpretations of the world and their unfinished desires. My job is to give birth to all of this.
There are, within that attic, pieces of the most varied riches. Alone, it is nothing and, together, are the best things that could come from the hands of a man.
I am a writer, baby.
Useless is the writer who does not bomb reality with its virtues and sins.
My inspirations are like arrows, darts – revolver bullets!
Got a bullet for every kind of feeling.
I choose the type of ammunition,
I look at you,
I’ll shoot you.
The bullet sticks in your chest. It can calm or it can hurt.
Making you smile or making you sing.
Making you think or making you bitter.
Feeling sorry or hate.
Feeling love or envy.
You will not know until you read.
Until it feel.
Until it hurts.
This is my mission,
Do not you dare approach my attic, sugar. I’ll get you.
And my heart, my attic, will remain uninhabitable.