If we were to open the February 16th bust and discover what was inside, what would we find that would be spectacular? We'd all find a host of questions about our place on this planet. Why are we here? Why does a day last 24 hours and not 48 or 10 times longer? Who set up all these systems that govern our lives? And why do we let them? Are we weak? Or has someone removed the motherboard that allows us to open our eyes?

To tell you the truth, I don't know. But one thing's for sure: on this dapper February 16th, there's a glimmer of possibility. A possibility of being happy. To be happy and shimmering. Shimmering and flashing. Not like a cop's flashing beacon, but more like a beautiful spring garland.

Now that we're, mas o menos, 30 days away from a spring that promises fire and flames, we're going to have to pull out our first pair. Pull out a beautiful pair, ready to do anything to make you the next prizewinner on the international scene.

I'm interrupting this newsletter to tell you that I'm not in a position to continue it, as I'm feeling weak, even brittle, so it would be totally inappropriate to pretend otherwise and try to make you laugh while chaos swirls inside me. Call me crazy, call me a fool, I don't care. Despite what I've been letting slip in letter after letter, of this fortic woman who manages to walk on the crests of existence as if I were wearing 7-league boots, I'm made of titanium. Yes, I'm that chick who laughs in the face of life that you adore so much and would love to hug.

I've been meaning to share it with you for a long time. Now I have: