There was once a poet who learned to walk, even run vigorously, sooner than almost anyone else in the art world (is there anything more 'artistic' than writing poetry?). When he was about 20 years old, he gave up on continuing there, and, although he did not stop traveling and seeing the world, he never resumed the creative work that eventually crowned him as one of the most extraordinary spirits of humanity.

Me, who have nothing to do with that genius (I do not want to appear insolent or haughty, next to him I feel that I am very tiny) or with anything that can be qualified as extraordinary, I begin to walk my way more or less inversely to the way he did: almost fifteen years older than the age at which the man died, and twenty years after putting the brushes down, I wake up from an unbearable lethargy to start walking.

And maybe, just maybe... I'll learn to run a little.