Illusions

| 20/08/2026 - 15:20

One late autumn afternoon, in an old coffee shop at the corner of the street, the old writer and the young painter sat opposite each other. He was over seventy years old, his hair was as white as old paper, his eyes were like those of someone who had read too many books, loved too many people and was disappointed many times. He was just over twenty-five, his hair tied tightly at the back of his neck, his shirt had a few paint stains, his face was sad like water-dipped rice paper.