To the people who say I remain to myself, almost all time, I agree without a slight argument or an explanation.
Because behind the closed door, they would find my room. In there, I would be sat on a chair, elbows rest on a table, either reading or writing. Sometimes, my eyes transfixed on an object, memorizing its image and side views, to turn it later into substance of some sketches. Other time, with colours, fingers besmirched, imitating painters. If not, then, I would be humming the tunes of my honest choice. Even when out of these business, they would find me gazing on empty walls, unknown that I am already involved into my blank imagination, never breaking the solemn reticence.