DEAR COFESSOR:

My dear friend, I like to consider you my friend, my dearest and closest confident. I have a special weakness for you, why, if not, I would get naked every day to make evident my spirit wounds and soul disease under eyes that are not mine? The intimacy of a boudoir whose walls are a book, chalk on blackboard, fleeting patterns printed for a season; even though the motives on the sides of this cubicle will be washed away, not the lines on the palm map that with them are being chiseled. Dear confessor, I manifest I am lazy and slow, that in the times of doubt I prefer to evade a response. That I tend to inconstancy and I lick fickleness as a Popsicle, like that, with no prevision for futures shortages, with unconsciousness and slackness. I fight with bravery, that is true, but leaving the field before winning the battle should have a name harsher than cowardice. I pricked my forefinger sawing and there is a red track on the labor along the needlework, it hurts, the steel was kind of dirty, who knows if I am in need of the anti-tetanus… but I reject to inject foreign agents that play with my defenses. I bet you like my platelet border and the corpuscles threaded in the weave, cross-stitched, defining the portrait and the frame around, that couldn’t be done with any other type but with the winding chain-stitch. Thank you for offer yourself to me, every time virgin, discovering simultaneously as I discover, that there are so many other ways, and they are all in me. B_Nour