67 years and a half: Tuesday, as it was on Tuesday, the day on which I was born.
I have just turned sixty-seven, and a half! Yes, I am in seven years more than my sixties. 67 and more than half of another. They are exactly 24,654 days, neither one more, nor one less.
I look to my left, and I see a stack of documents. I think that the order of those documents looks like my life was. A family member disorder and a constant refusal to put my things in order.
A confusion that corresponds to my order.
No one can expect to turn me in a man that loves the Order. And if nobody can claim to transform me in a man that loves the order, why to insist so that I put me in this company? My wife said that if I put in order my attic and two apartments that I have dealt with my papers and other things, she buy an apartment to the sea and she puts it at my disposal.
My wife's proposal attracts not my interest, first because order costs fatigue, secondly, because without my confusion I could suffer in solitude. To order all my things it could require some year. I think that if I use this time in a better way, perhaps it is preferable. I forget the use of an apartment to the sea. But when could I enjoy this apartment if before I need to order all my things?
No one that ponders my age!
