My only refuge, my soul, my breath is wor­ried. I don’t know what to say to my thirst. Clois­tered in my com­fort, I sense dan­ger as if the crust beneath my feet had already begun to trem­ble long before my sens­es alert­ed me to it.

Why this per­pet­u­al shift to dark­ness and anguish, this insis­tent return to light and wisdom ?

I gnaw at myself while my thoughts rage, then I take a deep breath, for I have no oth­er strength than that. Some­thing is call­ing or warn­ing me ; I can hard­ly hear it. I could sing that all is well, madame la Mar­quise, while a log­ic sharp­ened like a guil­lo­tine makes me lose my reason.

My words, my only buoys, appear under my fin­gers with­out being able to cer­ti­fy that I am far from drown­ing. These words, which some­times earn me polite “likes” are my com­fort­ing food.

I hard­ly under­stand ; I smile at every­one. My closed eye­lids tell gory shad­ows. My head hurts, not quite the one under the bones, more the one that pumps my blood. Does my heart know it will die ; is it just the uni­ver­sal con­science that tells me so ?

How easy writ­ing is ! They are only twen­ty min­utes old, and they man­age to put me to sleep.

I have still tak­en refuge in them with­out iden­ti­fy­ing the bor­der or the impact. Am I poi­son­ing or free­ing myself ?