My speech is autumn, winter. Your gaze is spring, your touch is summer. There is more to give by the eye than writing can offer. The people around me all the time, with the postures of angels, big virgins Mary, quiet Sebastians.
I have the impression that history is repeated every time the subway doors open. We know so little about our actions, we hardly realize that we are both light and horror.
I have so many impressions to look at that I become almost castrated with veneration, submerged, annihilated, without strength, mortally small.
Life never ceases to display its youth, its persistent youth, hardly different from what I was, what you will have been. The past does not tire of renewing itself, the future does not tire of repeating itself. We drink our time, water traverses our pores, we are opaque only to better disintegrate. We are transparent, evanescent, for no reason.
Every time a body approaches mine, every time the dream is hoping for a future, every time it is hoping for a flavor. Every time my lips want to open, every time they hold back the hands of my experience, the Cassandras of my memories resound valiantly in chorus.
This text is lost, its sentences build intellectual theologies. It is my way of draping myself in beauty, of hiding this aging body, this avidly naive heart.
I have so much to sing about that the walls of my inability to say everything are thickening. My life is becoming autistic.
This is how I often approach the night.
