Death of a Mouse

I don’t exactly remember whether the magazine, one of whose pages fell victim to my mother’s anti-mouse idea, was about cinema or literature. Most likely, it was one of those literary magazines dreaming of producing two or three dozen good writers, and in reality, a good writer is like a good cook… a good mechanic… or, who knows, maybe what the magazine meant was to be your own writer, just as you can be your own doctor or mechanic, or to make sure no one from the other side of the world, under the pretext of publishing your book or making you famous, uses the internet to sneak their hidden hand into your pocket and steal from you…