I don’t know if you remember this Nina. I was Hamlet, in a world far from history, at one of the impalpable untraveled corridors of life, avidly, imperiously and enquiringly asking myself whether to be or not to be, when suddenly, I looked up as if staring at a hoist horizon of opalescent stunning appearance, and I saw you as the most comforting, sensitive and extraordinary of facades. Yes, I found myself wondering in those instants whether to be or not, whether getting on or not with existence or denial or whether choosing the contents of absolute, or by the indefinite unsuspected shape of nothing, when I saw you there, in the middle of the discontinuous figments of a feverish pulsating tide of heartbeats. There, at one of the galleries of such enormous modern theatre where my soul began someday a while ago to be pursued by the soft silky breath of dreams and where I’ve been practising as a director, as a lead actor and occasionally as a skilful gifted playwright, more exactly whenever fragrant inspirations of vaguely forbidding muses want me to.



What was the first thing I thought when I saw you for the first time? Well, I thought you, with your gleaming amber eyes and pearly skin, were as beautiful and hypnotic as those aforementioned vaguely forbidding...