I'm losing the totems. Those poor little creatures are floundering in the brumal snowfields. They're unused to it, they don't know how to and cannot. They are spoilt.

Non, c'est moi. Je ne sais rien. C'est moi qui est gâté.

The snowflakes relentlessly cover the poor animals. Don't they understand that it is merely confusing to wander under the white covers. There is nothing but snow white.

I have lost the totems.

When the young sun is caressing the windows, when it's timidly flowing over the door sill and with thin silk of warmth it's covering the room floor, a girl with fair and uncombed hair is rushing outside to dress herself with the morning's sunshine. By the front door there's a weary old woman sitting on a bench, with a fair look she sees off the girl. The old lady's hands (maybe by force of habit set for a prayer) rest on the thick skirt. The house is shedding a tenebrous shadow, and the girl runs off. 

Only the evening sun talks the girl into coming back and embarrassed by the latter's tirelessness it colours her loose hair rosily. The bench by the house is still dull. The passing girl glows crimson on it. But the eyes of the old lady don't glint anymore. The hands mutely rest on the thick skirt. 

une tasse éternelle...