Sometimes, I forget that you can remember me almost as much and as little. Because I am always inside myself, I forget, dear, that I exist outside. That other people can see me, and that I am as seen, as visible and perhaps as invisible as the others. That I am not the only one burdened with memories of our insignificant meeting, that one late evening, in a vibrating moment before you kiss her, the red lipstick of your wife will remind you of my photographs. And the next morning, I will be surprised at my sudden weariness of the colour.