I wrote the letter in French because it's the language in which I lie the least. The shards of stone stuck in the center—from the neighboring construction site—cut my fingers; I loved that sharp pain. At the second alarm of the night, I washed away almost all the words; enough remain for the water to have traced rivers on the paper. Rodolphe, participant, not hero: someone who refuses to forget that one can still paint when the city holds its breath.

"A letter to Kyiv read in a low voice is already a miniature public square."