At this hour of the night

At this hour of the night I am under some sort of weird activation. I don't feel like going to bed; I would rather prefer to travel along a secret, mysterious tunnel into the underworld, just to come tomorrow in the morning to my usual undertakings.

With pleasure I have received this notice from V., a truly passionate artist. Indeed, it is refreshing to come across with someone who takes his job seriously, loves it and is so constant with it. Indeed, it is so many years that he has been counter-balancing obligations with devotion, with no other motivation than the satisfaction of a very natural thrust of self-vocation and genuine passion. The man seems not to be hiding any evil inclinations or any self-destructive beast lurking behind the skin to jerk forward and bite as soon as the safe curtain of the day is drawn off; he does not seem to comply either with any rituals or fashionable vindications of society. Ausin Sainz looks like a man living his life and doing what he wants; he probably is ambitious, but not pretentious nor megalomaniac. He faces work up front, does not duck it out; just an ordinary man bringing his sizzling and artistic interests forward, day by day.

I will try to exert my criticism on your work, as you wish. Go ahead, continue!

**

I am listening to some recordings by Janis Joplin... Yea, yep, I got the curiosity from the so-called 27 Club reminders, spread after the death of Amy... I am just such an ignoramus. Also, Jimi Hendrix, Kurt Cobain and Eric Clapton. I spent part of the evening in Candem Town. There was an exhibition of framed photographs of Jim Morrison in this bar -gosh, what's its name??-, all for sale (at very reasonable prices from 500 to 1000 quid). I guess I could make some comments of all this, but I won't. I don't know a shit about it, and what I could say might be irrelevant.

I had a long shot of varied characters today and, again, the feeling is always the same. They all are creatures of time and fashion, myriads of stars strolling the skies orderly. But when the night comes, London sleeps. Oh, yes, London does sleep. And there is no escape from time and truth when you are asleep... A lonely activity we repeat so often, unless you belong to the heart of a woman.

The heart of a woman, oh, the heart of a woman.
A precious, invaluable gift.

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