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​“Brussels” she said one day in the 80’s and I rolled my eyes.

Leaving Paris for Brussels?! Where is that anyway? In the Netherlands, in Holland or in the Dutch country? None of the above, she murmured.

Thing is that a couple of years later I was there and I was fine. Italian chicks, white nights, orange cars, huge parks and heavy rain.

It was unavoidable to go back for good after two “fruitful” years in the Greek Army. Fruitful and full of junk (junk food, junk friends, junk girlfriends). 

Today, 30 years later, I need to browse those visual memories, to extract and trash any subjective elements, and share them to make them bits of the imaginary, as if they didn’t touch me at all.