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Words

Modifié le : 2016/09/16

I’m review­ing Les Mailles san­guines in small steps, in short words. Despite a neck pain close to a stiff neck, despite tired eyes, despite the bore­dom of a Sat­ur­day, I dive into my mind, prob­a­bly for the last time.

The jour­ney may have tak­en too long. A friend kind­ly sug­gest­ed that I do not fix­ate on it, that I move on. I under­stand what he’s telling me. As an artist him­self, he knows that the best cre­ation is the one to come. But Les Mailles san­guines still deserves this hon­or. I do it for myself first and fore­most, just as I wrote it for myself. I have been writ­ing since child­hood, I open my mouth and swal­low my water, gills ready for syntax.

It’s a messed-up mys­tery. I’m get­ting old­er. A lit­tle dis­ap­point­ed or dis­cour­aged. That won’t stop me from con­tin­u­ing. The flame per­sists and signs.

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