Ich liebe dich, Papa.

Braised cigarette held between the lips goes round the corner and back.

My face is bundled up in my own bush of hair, which are extremely unruly. I desire heartly to look as deep as possible inside someone's eyes and with the head held straight and proudly to quite this tricky game happened in my brain. Simultaneously I have to confess that delicious French Beaujolais of 2008 harvest year slightly infatuated as well as burned the blood in veins of mine. That reminded me of you and I dancing nearby the Eiffel Tower, dancing that non-existant dance for the first and last time in our lives.

It was me in the very heart of Europe, smashing already broken glass of memories with high-high heels. And that was the time I realised that the only person who's opinion I care about and who's pride I need as the air, as the blood circulating in the body, as the pulse felt in blistering temples, is my dear father. My best in the whole world dady, who still holds my hand while crossing the street as if I were five.