The filmmaker's friend

Abstract

I was attending my first private math class (a subject I was never good at, not even in fiction). I had already been failing the subject for some time and my parents had no choice but to condition my games in order to concentrate as much and as well as possible on the subject. I was eleven years old, and naive, I believed that children only had the occupation of playing and nothing more than playing. The tale of childhood is always a mundane distortion, seemingly nothing more than hearsay. It was 10 a.m. on a Saturday morning that promised eternity. The place I was to attend was a house of marked minimalism: a cold style, a house that occupied a large earthly portion in the depths of an affluent subdivision. The grounds of the house were wide and clear, nothing fell from the sky but blue gravity emptied of clouds; not even the little birds were allowed to fly over such an exclusive area, or at least that is what the ostentatiousness of the place implied.