Bachelard writing workshop Scriptural art Two Thousand Twenty Two

In my suitcase

In my suitcase there is nothing left. I travel with an empty head, I travel light, I will pick up here and there what is lying around, and I will get rid of it in due course. The contents of my suitcase no longer belong to me, it has been redistributed. I crossed a Peking with my Marcel, another with my overcoat, and on top of that my umbrella served as an umbrella. How good it is to no longer belong to oneself, to have emptied one's bag, scattered one's riches and pots to the four winds. Tonight I eat a four seasons to celebrate, not enough to make a cheese.

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