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This beauty

Modifié le : 2019/08/08

There seemed to be only beau­ty on the ground this morn­ing. Oh, there was the morn­ing light, the promise that the day would be beau­ti­ful. There was also the refresh­ing air, pur­er than usu­al — autumn and win­ter make us believe that the cold will destroy the tox­ic fumes and waste pro­duced by the human race — there was assured­ly this anonymi­ty of the passers-by who let me wan­der quietly.

But what about it ? Noth­ing worth­while, but a rift, a crack in the gaze in search of silence, of what is dying right now. In a park, not the one I walk through most of the time, but this one fur­ther north, a few blocks away, I squat­ted down. There, the sun shaved death, pro­voked it by warm­ing its ice, played with the skin of the leaves.

We nev­er get tired of this sea­son, which promis­es us tougher times. We do not get tired of this aston­ish­ment. In this way, we can prob­a­bly tame the moment when we offer our flesh to the plea­sure of a morn­ing that will be for­eign to us.

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