There’s a rusty table in my house and I probably should restore it and make it mine like the memory of a walk in Chopin’s garden that became the picture of a sketch whose surface is dusty but smooth and never rusty. It is a table from the seventies, perfect for painting. But. Anyways. I’m just saying. I’ve seen the picture of a very nice cat tonight and I’d call it the white duke of Rome. I also have a white cat. I keep on defending him from the limits he’s been encountering since he became a sort of scapegoat for an unweeping boy. For some unreasonable reasons those limits have kept on increasing day by day and my cat’s expression often looks exactly like the one in this Parisian portrait of someone like him… Que la vie?