We necessarily live alone within the elastic walls of the apartments of the body and mind. There are indeed the ghosts of our ideas, the spirits of our memories, the films of our habits. There are also those strange oases of energy, stuck to our skin, in the early morning, that smile at us, those distant television demonstrations, written or sung, those passing islands that, with their eyes, anchor themselves to your gaze and continue their pilgrimage without slowing down.
Above all, there is this insistent beat, this trembling of blood, this water that keeps returning to the same mill, feeding a tenacious existence. There will be none of this anymore one day. Things, both mountains and grains of our thoughts, will still continue on their way.
We have to live alone because we are nothing. However, even if we are small among the other links of the chain, the fact remains that we can feel with vertigo the entire height of existence.
It is enough to look, to be silent, to speak afterward, even if there will always be this endless echo to answer our ignorance. We are really very few things, and that doesn’t matter.