My steps dilute in the water of an unrevealed rain, my hands look for the sun and its absence makes me wander in the realm of the colours of your photos and I am still your tear on a forgotten painting, your errance in the perfume of a lonely nadir, your eclipse, the dawn, the sunset and the moon. I have always been an arrow, Diane's whisper and I am still your myriads of stars, the origami of the rays of sorrow. You are still my drawing in the wind, my souvenir for a bewildering November.