In the hollow of an afternoon made storage of paper, and the bergamot tea, I handed the ear to the voice of an issue of France Culture (the magnetic nights) with the theme: erotomania.

If I knew the name of this condition for several years, I admit not me be never looked really on the subject. Because we've all wondered at a moment of his life, if we loved a little more strong who just loved us if little, this show has bothered me. I let myself wear according to these testimonies to wide who live their love without limit, and these people object to erotomania (in this case Benedict slab, François Caroli).

The border between love and madness is so tenuous, that it referred me to this notion of interpretation of the feelings of love. How many times have we not asked friends whether or not contraption had for us to noble intentions? The first confirms "but it's obvious" it's then euphoria. The second cripple "but no it is courteous/e" and is the void, doubt, melancholy… In love, there is always this failover where neither we nor anyone know if one truly loves us. There will always be this inconquis territory. And yet we keep going back all…

Then I wondered how many times I had liked to wrong or right. I'll never know. And yet these moments have forged me. They are no doubt right then… The important thing is to love ;)