I am there, vis–a–vis my blank sheet of 224 Mg,my size pencil in action. The cut mine,tightened in my fingers, my right hand posesand connects the features. In the course of time, a foreground then a second takes shape. Imouse with each blow given. I release mypencil and I take my gum to delete anexceeding feature. Stupidly, I mouse, becausethe decoration which surrounds me could lendto smiling. Sat on the walk of a Parisianstaircase, I am in my bubble. In any event,people pass without me to see, then I continuein my world.
The features form a drawing, my drawing, mycaricature personal reasons to the forefront ofmy freedom of expression. People pass withoutbeing concerned with my presence.
Suddenly, a young teenager, the cap behind,looks at my work over my head and tells me:
“Wesh, Mister! It is too beautiful! You havetalent!
– Thank you young man, I answered, smiling,flattered to be left my dreamed by thiscompliment.
– Wesh, it is not a drawing of buffoon, says meit while laughing.”
I burst of laughing, followed by an unverifiablegiggle. My eyes cry of merry tears. The young person looks me without a word, a smileobstructed with the lips.
“Does that go, Mister? Why do you laugh likethat?
– You know small, if I showed my drawing withwhoever, they would not understand, and Iwould be a buffoon.
– Ben, me I understand, Me sir. It is a mixtureof people who are held the hand in a street. Doyou believe, Me sir that individuality has likefriend solidarity?
– My small, I can tell you that the respectapplies already to oneself, to be given to thedifferent one.
– It is sure that, Me sir. At a stretch of pencil,that gave the smile to the drawing.
– It is nicely known as, but that could takealong anger to certain glances. How are youcalled, my boy?
– Charlie, Me sir, answers me it while leaving!”
afflicted for my translation and my grammar