Recently, I have been wondering if it is me who plays with her toys or they play with me.
I think of the old Chinese who dreamt he was a butterfly and, when he woke up, wondered for a long time if he was an old Chinese who had dreamt he was a butterfly or he was a butterfly dreaming it was an old Chinese.
I have been trying to imagine what it is my toys dream of.
  A her-artist, made of astonishment and anger, who swings between enthusiasm and disgust in such a way that the toys contemplate a collective meditation in order to have a dream of me as very mild-tempered. But, when they have just managed to work up their dreams into a reverie, a bee, a sheep and a rose, I fall asleep over the book and, while dreaming, I see all their problems. I wake up at nights to make them complete because I know that if I do not place their hearts firmly in their hands they will dream of me being so sentimental that I will let them down in order to paint only Angels and Angelas.
Sometimes I make serious mistakes. For two monks, carved with an old rusty scalpel, I made of blue mother of the pearl a perfect cave – and I never saw them again. I do not dare thinking of the way they will think of me from within there.
Ever since I gave up religion.
At other times, it is really scary – once they have conspired to make me up in a state of  severe crisis and they came to their senses only when the fire brigade arrived – until that moment they thought it was a performance. I almost threw them away but I realized that I had gathered them one little piece of rubbish after  the other and I got scared that we might mutually dream of a nostalgia.
  So I decided to bring them to light and to color – the published dreams and thoughts, and make-believes may, at the most, drive a doctor to writing.
The her-artist however takes a break – until the next butterflies.