My first love was poetry. I was 16, a lifetime ago, another me. Writing was little else than a school commitment. Then, a substitute came and started reading a few poems from the Flowers of Evil. Baudelaire entered my veins instantly, never leaving again: a virus I never recovered from. From this moment, writing has been a fascinating queen and hag that pretends, whips, commands but, when she’s good, opens her graces to me. Today I’m not a poet anymore. I gave in. Poets die young. I write to live: newspapers, websites, books. And I also read, play, travel, and eat.