Or did I already have this silent prejudice before really thinking about it? While I am travelling, indulging myself in a flirt with exotism, my mind is travelling into phrases, losing itself in gloomy flowery encounters of wished-for wonders. Where is the play with thoughts in all these plays with words, which remind me of the calender sayings on my grandmothers kitchen table? (Which hold wisdom, at the end. And the middle.) How can I bend and twist and turn the impressions of dazzling colors, of fleeting smells to rationalize them? How can I describe the passing moment of two dancing butterflies in the afternoon shadow of palm trees that seems perfect and eternal? Exactly. You rather not. You resist the kitsch (and secretly mingle with the elevation of the trivial). Taking snapshots seems so easy nowadays. Click and swipe and show. Your flattering friend, the filter, makes your eye feel talented. And where, do we wonder, is the editing filter for writing? A click, a swip, a novel. But, my dear diary, please keep these lines for yourself. Don’t even whisper them to your neighbour; can we agree on that?