Une Porte bleu

Fragments of a dream through a rediscovered innocence, in a garden I know by heart: the fig tree, slowly rooting over time. I watch it, my fingers sticky with honey and the figs I’m savoring.

A perfume crafted like a matryoshka — it had six versions; here is the last. This time, I know it well, and I dream of it. Now it’s your turn to eat the fig.

Do you remember, Mima, when I was sitting there? Yemma had no idea that fig tree would grow.

Well, here it is. I came to bring you this through the blue door — for you, for them, for us, for me.
Call it whatever you like.