Mid-August 2011, I whistled gently, in vain too: "Sweet little fifties…"
I never received any invitation card for the "party" in the gardens of the White House. Que nada!
An oversight on Barack's part who might don't know me.
Before sharing our addresses, we could judge our skills ball in hands on his private playground. After all, Basketball is still our youthful passion. However, I'm not quite sure he loves as much as I do to cross the wide white outdoors, to draw curves inthe snow powder, to walk alone to the top of the heights, in my Alps, in my mountains named Belledonne.
Barak and Iare almost the same height to the nearest inch, he had two daughters and his wife knows whatshe is talking about when she talks. That's called having some similarities, right? But, no way to believe that I would venerate this guy. I'm definitely not the kind of guyto cozy up to idols.
At six years old I jumped out the window of the catechism class and they never saw meagain.
At twelve, I was rather "Playboy magazine" than "Disney color"
After some consideration, since the prehistory of my memories, I'm pretty like: "Neither God normaster".
Our lifeline, there are still significant differences. There is the geography thatseparates us.
Honolulu, New York City, Chicago and Washington for him.
Clermont-Ferrand, Annecy, Chambery, Dijon, Lyon, Grenoble or Cheltenham for me.
On my lifeline is engraved: Self-taught in everything - unable to do twice the samething - collector of experiences.
I would be curious to see his lifeline.
Except I'mnot about to put his hand in mine. The chances are slim that Barack and I become friends one day or another.
No use to believe in such tales…
...I only have to write them down.