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  • Each time I want to go back I have the sensation of all these doors slapping my eyes.

    Gilles is my class-mate. In this story he is 25 and I am 63. In Turkish, my name is Pall and his is Gillou. I had no imaginary friends when I was young. The beings that populate my life, the stories I tell myself and to others, the loneliness of an autumn Sunday, her fingers playing with the sun rays and the smell of her wet hair after a late afternoon swim, my parents' love, the mirror-souls that I encapsulate, all this nowness is a pursuit of a peterpanesque absence. Raymond Depardon and the photograph's non-presence in the image.

    Gilles talks about Manstein and Dali's genius. The lines of a body are tracing a map of a lifetime. His face changes in an almost imperceptible movement from sorrow to happiness. A flash of a camera and he smiles. He always shakes my hand and always asks 'Wie geht's?'.

    These are the story-people, the people you cross in metro stations or while riding the bus, in a cinema or at the book store and you wouldn't have thought that the person in front of you, the old man in his shabby mantel, with his bag inappropriately placed on the leg of the person sitting next to him always has a smile for me in the corner of his lips.
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