In the good, although often misinterpreted, company of Charles Baudelaire, she believed that Ennui was the most insidious, ravenous foe, far worse than any virus or malware imaginable.
Ideas came to her mind the way mail arrived in the mailbox.
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One humid summer night, after he had wrapped up a late-night painting session in the basement studio with her brother, he had spied her, the older sister, sleeping on the couch as he exited the bathroom on the main floor, thinking to himself in that unavoidable yet noncommittal pause that she looked like an angel from a Wim Wenders movie if the angels in Wenders' films had slept.
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