My perfect child

I had a dream (last night, only) ...

I was in the kitchen and I was listening to music. It was a simple song of a poor mad man. He was so sad that he moved me. I was really touched and I nearly forgot the milk on the fire. Yes, I wanted a cup of hot milk to help me sleep which can sound nonsense when we consider it was a dream ... But in my dream, I stood up and I was alive, dreaming in a way ...

I was dreaming of my perfect child. He would be so smart, so clever. A perfect boy, the best child every parent would desire. Unfortunately, I would learn some day that it wasn't mine. It would shock me so much that I would die of a heart-attack ... Terrible story, terrible dream ...

But it did arrive ... By the train ! It was a piece of bread. Something was written on it. I took it just to have a look at this strange thing. And what an amazement ! I realised my son had written this weird message : "Don't call me son ... ever"

I moved to another house but he succeeded in finding me. Again and again. I was so tired. I fell in love with the postman. Thanks to this meeting, he gave me a favour : every morning, he avoided to give me the new message from my son. I had finally the entire control of the situation ... But one day ... I woke up !


(J' ai écrit ça sur le Ciao UK, sur un coup d'envie spéciale ... et puis je me suis dit : personne ne me lira ! - sauf si je vais les lire, mais là j'ai la flemme :p ... Alors qu'ici, un jour, peut-être ... Et puis autant concentrer plusieurs sources, du moment que ça vient de moi !)

(Bon ok, mon anglais n'est plus ce qu'il était ... Ce sera l'occasion de le dépoussiérer un peu, et de faire revenir le XIXe Century ! Bon ok ... c'est l'heure d'aller dormir !!!)