Fragment of a story penned by my father in So. America around the time of my conception

"What is there to tell them!  I tell them that I have my art, and that that and a good place to live are all I need".  "I think I'd better have a drink"  do you want one  she said and started towards the gate mumbling "Do you live here?"  "What do you do all day?"

He usually told them, but then, he only met the ones he liked.  to talk to  He was thinking of a girl who said she live a rich inner life.

"Do you live here?  What do you do all day", he said, chuckling to himself as he looked at all the prints on the wall.