Sometimes, late at my desk, looking at my own blurry shadow in the window- front, I wish I could be someone else. In a different town, in a far away country I could live and it maybe would be the same town where I was born, I would know all streets and alleys and when I walked through this little town, everyone would greet me and I would nod back. On Sundays, I would take the children out for a walk in the woods and once a year, we would invite all the neighbors for a feast. But maybe I could be someone with a real talent, producing exciting pictures, wandering myself through galleries full with my own paintings or would be an actress, appearing on a stage night for night. I could marry someone and somewhere we would live, not happy, not unhappy day after day. A big career would be another option and I would wait on the doorstep every morning till a big, black car would collect me for work, the door would be opened for me, no one ever would see my face behind black glasses. Someone totally different I could be singing a child to sleep or sing a song in a bar for a man. Woman I could love and making more love. I could create something, which would grew older than me and remain for longer days than mine. Another country I could choose and start to dream after many years in other words, the language I speak I could forget and wake up in another world. But many things are easy to imagine and maybe the other life would suit me well or even better, but even if all this would happen, someday I would dream of leaving the town, the women and all my paintings, and so I return to my desk, where no dreams, no glittering glamour, no sparkling moments and no other possibilities are to be found than my usual work.