"I have frozen
feet But I remember
August seventy-five
But there is hardly one amateur
One hundred thousand navigators
One storyteller
One hundred thousand baratineurs"

CharlÉlie Couture

To D.-G. Gabily

Verbal aporia: not finding the words to say it.
The house glowed with cold electricity.
Inside it was not hot, the wind passing through the windows.
The walls do not protect from anything, it is the cold that bites the spine, it is the soup that does not satiate, it is the bread that stalls the stomach, it is the corpus callosum that hurts after the work of the day.
It is therefore impossible to forget winter.
Acting expectation by the hope of the return of the sunny days. Winter is hard but doesn't always last.

It was there, in this dilapidated alley, that I saw men rise up against God, fight against their human condition, suffer in their bodies the pains of labor, forget them in alcoholic fantasies. Monsters who raise their heads to insult him and his imperfect world, O holy wrath of atheists!

So what is this cry stuck in the throat?
An ancient and almost forgotten reaction, lost in the depths of being, against the anguish of destruction.
Daily fragility and violent instability.
That cry that would up the very moment it came out of me.
So rather: reinvent the real by the imaginary.
I am a reflection of the world and I will show myself differently to make it lie.

Waiting for the outcome of my viscera twisted around veiled feelings.
It is only to say, to take the risk of saying and feeling this heat actually flow to the scarlet face.
Shame, this femininity of man.

I kneel on the earth.
The red earth of all this spilled blood.
She is full of pain.
I take this dust of men, the sweats of work and anxieties are mixed with it.
I feed on it, it is all that remains as food to which is of this earth.
And you have to know how to taste the bitter.
This is the essence of what there is to know for who is of this world.

Have words to write that dry at the edge of the pen.

Desire to write as an outlet: no more confusion.Life, perpetual movement.
Benchmark failure: potential danger.
The landmark itself flees in this race of the world on itself.
The world is a ball in the swell.
A ball – of anguish.
Tossing on the various trajectories that are organized around contradictory forces.
Sobriety is an ostrich technique for not seeing that.
In vino veritas – is the truth dosable?
High amounts of alcohol ingested increase the amount of sugar in the blood, sugar is ingested through water, the body becomes dehydrated and my head turns.
Water is Life. His lacks an approach to Death.
Crossing the ethyl desert.
He who comes to know death learns to know life.
Each image perceived by the eye organ in its ecstatic gaze is then vertigo.
The eye organ contemplates the fall.
Getting bogged down in these images like the foot in the quicksand.
Slow waltz that turns and turns the heart.
We only have our two eyes to cry.
And it is indeed a kind of cry that I try to dry out closed eyelids.
I thought it was a physical phenomenon embodied in the organ.
Now the door of the eye no longer allows you to distinguish the threshold between internal and external.
And your body you don't feel anymore.
And there are no more limits.
And your being is the cosmos.
And the cosmos is only relative gravitational whirlwinds.
And at that moment you lose your footing.
Find a mooring. Avoid drowning.
I throw ink into my abyss. As if they were abysses. As if the notion of being did not cover an abyss.
Find the axis of movement. Immobility around which everything revolves.
The closer I get to it, the faster and tighter it turns.
The truth is that once engaged in this direction no return possible.
The truth is that the only way to escape it is to find the axis.
The truth is that it is unbearable.
A voice that says, "We're going to lose it."
That's right…
You lose me. I run away.
Desperate escape.
A disoriented attempt to join an axiom.
All gravitation is ephemeral.
The true meaning of the body that gravitates is to join the body around which it gravitates.
He tries it and tries it again.
Two masses have the will to be one and that is why they attract each other.
Gravitation is only a parade of seduction where illusions are an orbit that plays with them.
Desire to join my mass.
Desire to join my axis.
Every body in the cosmos is carried by the same desire.
A dance of union.
A balance that stabilizes loss and vertigo.
An appeasement.
The beginning of…

I want to write as one gets drunk from an evening spent in the Dionysian, in savagery, in the affirmation of one's energy as a will for vain, useless and necessary power.
An escape from the exhausts.

Caress and tickle pubic hair on my face.
Getting drunk with this damp undergrowth that is the place of my little death, the one that will one day give life I hope to a kind of continuity different from myself.

And I cried bitter tears.
I deplored this rough sea that dragged me to the bottom of its blades.
And I decided no, it wouldn't be that anymore.
And I decided that my idiocy would have the bit on its teeth and tear off its bridle.

It's been a long time since the realm of my thoughts came out of reality.
And reality comes to annihilate a life of flickering elaborations.
So much time wasted trying to come to terms with reality, so much time lived only in imagination.
Flaky and silent dichotomy like winter.
The archetypal ideal builds perspective, it is the bridge of flight.
Do not be blinded by the foreground.

The truth is neither in the real nor in the imaginary. Neither is lying.
Both the real and the imaginary contain in them a part of truth, but we cannot exclude the error.

Extract the juice to bitterness.
Persevere to the limit.
At the limit is the border crossing of gaping nothingness.
What if it was only a matter of agreeing to disappear?
What if it was only a question of drinking a bitter wine to the dregs and then sobering up at the last light of day?
Digging, digging his grave. This is all that man does all day long, and then rests his tired limbs in the mortuary position.
But there are also friends who come to drink a sweet wine and chat between two times of work.
And there is still the discouragement, the despair of everything.
The limit is there, when it becomes impossible to accomplish anything properly.
When from small error to small errors there are only approximations.
Wilting pride.
Learning humility.
That pride that kept me alive, and that fear that takes me to let go of it.
It's not that my writing doesn't make sense, it's not that it's not beautiful. It is that it is still incomprehensible to the majority of people, depending on the case.
How do I make myself heard in the midst of all this noise of battles being fought under my skull? I write like we search the mud in the hope of finding something else.
I would need a canvas to embroider on, and it might be nice to do that.
Above all, I would have to forget all the conditioning of those I have given myself as masters. This sentence came on its own, no need to make it spring from my fingers. No doubt it is true.
Probably. An expression that I like. The absence of doubt. Neither knowledge nor knowledge but innate data.
And still know-wisdom and know-be born with.
Finally my masters taught me who I am.

I lived in guilt towards the pope.
To safeguard my innocence, I took the side of disobedience.
My existence is a protest against the Law.
But if you only seek the forbidden, you remain in accordance with the Law, simply reversed.
Abolish the Law to swirl free like an autumn leaf.
Fleeing condemnation.
The taste for escape belongs to those who have built a prison for themselves.
How to discover your Self when you act according to others?
Go beyond all measures to walk the paths of creation.

The child is an image of what is not yet, of what has not been.
The state of innocence is a pearl of this world that must remain at the heart of the shell.
As long as the child disobeys his parents, this is how he can teach them something. The world is a toy that we break to know how it is made, what it is made of.
A mother's love is the best learning in life, because life is love.
A child learns better not to redo a mistake when forgiven.
A child learns to become cruel by observing the cruelty of adults.
He repeats this naked cruelty. Provided that he also learns some love-loving rhymes.

Popess, you have closed before me the door of the sun and you have repressed the bursts of my laughter before this absurdity of existence, which is not an atrocious drift of man.
You had at your side the moon which at the same time as it probed the secrets of my soul prevented me from transforming it.
You taught universality and recommended not to omit anything. It is an abyss that you proposed to me there, certainly starting from your good feelings, but I needed the struggle too, the resistance.
It's as if you were proposing a perpetual yes, but I know that the land that is my home port is a place of contradictions where to say yes to something is also to say no to other things. And that is my freedom, to say no.
But your place of attachment to you is in heaven, and however blue or black and beautiful it may be with its stars, it is only a way to direct its steps here on earth. But as a child it is as if I saw only that, this sky, and my footsteps stumbled incessantly on the ground. And I only wanted to quickly finish with this home port and go drown in the sea and its abyss.
I wondered: where am I from?
But today I am reinventing my destination, it is different from the one you taught me.
And above all I am of this existence and this place where I stand against all odds. The veil is not behind me, it is beyond and it is held by a woman who dances her seduction, and I let myself be done, docile.
You gave me cards, and I played, and I lost sometimes, but the deal is redone by others than you and for love of the game I take my revenge.

It was very very very very very early…
I was still asleep and mom and grandma were pushing me because we had to go fast.
I remember very well the good hot chocolate that put
A little sweetness in this overanimated universe of the beginning.
And then we went to the large square next to the cathedral. That she was tall and as she impressed me,
I looked with all my eyes at the gargoyles
And I was taken back because I had almost lost the adults in my contemplation.
You had to find your bus
And listen to the last minute recommendations:
Listen well to the monitors, be wise, write a little note,
And reassure the concerns of the parents they expressed by trying to make us believe that it was we who could be worried:
You will be able to see your brothers and sisters from time to time, we will write to you,
It's okay?
And the interminable wait for the departure, the farewell that is prolonged, that no longer sucks,
No longer knowing how to look at yourself through the window of the bus,
And then it was the departure,
A last little cuckoo of the hand,
And the adventure that began

Choose the frame. Delineate what should remain broad.
Would my painting be the terrible reflection of this world?
Nietzsche poetizes dance. The story is executed by bloodthirsty killers.
I try to impose my own limits on myself.
Finally, the piles of corpses always remain too off-screen.
Submissive and zealous officials, I exclude them.
I wish that my heart would be consumed in a burst of hope.

I want to write to put a window in the wall of reality.

Killer eye!
Always on the lookout in the eyes of the slightest clue.
Always this desire to understand what is happening there, in this street where I pass.
Always turned outwards to capture the reflection of my internal flows.
Always clinging to the other as the objectivity of my mind, most of the time grasping this verdict: Crazy!
Grasping the gap, learning the respective positions, looking for ways to approach the other and myself.
And my killer look.
I have a killer's look the moment I grasp in someone that everything I see in him is only what he wants to let me see, when I grasp that all this is only appearance, and that behind these appearances there is nothing, or to say better that this person will never let me see further than these appearances… There is such a control of being in there, so little spontaneity, yes, all spontaneity killed and everything else calculated in anticipation of effects, these men who make them their own puppet, far from any internal confit, whose whole art is to control external conflicts – without difficulty because they have in their hands the heaviest weight of the scale: power – and extinguishing the flame, these pompous firefighters make me want to be an arsonist.

His face looked ahead, and his gaze was oblique, a good way to watch what is happening here and there.
He looks at me, this man alone.
He looks at me, what does he imagine?
He may be asking me who I am… But I have nothing to answer. I am, that's it, isn't it already enough, what more does he want, I am and I have nothing else to say.
I manage for as well, not much, my imperfections, my low instincts, my anxieties, and the crows that croak on my way, and this deleterious time that I let evaporate, why fight against this,
why agitate in my flounder, I know too much that the meshes would tighten until I choke by my own strength.

Listen. So shut up for a moment. Take a look. Look inside you. See these stirring shadows of your shallows. Don't deny them. Don't play hard with them. Some do, they are blind to their being, they think they have mastered, and as they have denied and repelled these monsters that lie in them, they reappear at every moment, they think they are the absolute masters on board, and it reappears in them acts of lack.

The light hits on everything its fourteen o'clock light and my shadow is very small.
The resurgence of violent instincts sometimes occurs in me.
A misfortune for others and for me.
How can I get rid of this stormy and overly proud nature?
How can we not constantly oscillate between undergoing and subjecting?

What is my shadow hiding? I don't know, this does not prevent him from pursuing me, nourishing his secret designs.
When I question her, she remains silent. It's impossible to snatch a few bits of truth from her that I would need to better determine how to move forward with her. It is made to deceive me double or triple, it breaks down at will into a theater where illusions speak of hidden truths. I look through his characters for the protagonist as
a lost child who can no longer find himself. Sometimes I contemplate her in silence, I meditate on hers. In the depths of the scene there are always two or three monsters to make me flee and go in disarray.

Eye on picture.
Bloody nightmares. Hypocrisy and manipulation. Virtual realities.
Can seriousness restore the truth by doing the work of the one who is watching?
If only the assembly allows to dwell on the real and does not cut-pre-chew it.
The viewfinder sells pre-eigen:.

Nagging disasters, oscillating from west to east and from north to south like a perfect pendulum…
A pendulum oscillates most of the time only to reflect the will of the one who holds it in his hand and who holds the hand of his peers…
Disasters fruit of the interests of a handful.
The television news is a bit of a pendulum of that handful.
I close my fist.

Verbal aporia: it is true that words lose their content.
We talk on the tv news about rebels, as if that were enough… but rebels against what exactly, we do not know. It is as if the word rebel should be enough to anchor a negative connotation in our heads.
Rebel, rebel against the established order, against the law, against God perhaps? Surely against God, the greatest sacrilege,
here are men who are rebellious to those who place their trust in God.
We place our trust in god as we make an investment in the stock market, hoping that it pays off as much as possible.

Communication is part of a behavioral pattern.
Good conscience is having instruments of power that allow in complete legality to satisfy one's ignored instincts. An entrepreneur's instrument is his company: he integrates men into it, he uses it to reject others, always according to the interests of this company – but let us not forget that they exactly
join his own. Thus he satisfies his lowest and egotistical instincts in one of today's highest social offices – once it was the artist, but once it was so far away…
There are no more social projects, there are only corporate balance sheets that serve the interests of capitalism, that is, those who hold capital.
Relentless in tearing me away from this arch-structuralism.
The economy has become the only point of political decision, it decides for it.
Welcome to the economic dictatorship!

Charles I remember this sentence that you said, quoting another.
As if those who constantly revive the embers of the Holocaust, the duty of remembrance, use it too often to make people forget that our world is still totalitarian.
Yes. Economic totalitarianism, media propaganda.
You're Jewish and you still know what you're talking about…
And I also really liked this kick you put in the door of this asshole who zealously applies the law:
green is green and I crush a pedestrian.
You are a friend. Already a friend. Tell with me these thousand and two stories of the mud that sticks to the grolles.
Despite all that can interfere with my words and gestures, you have recognized my music, and I need people like you who hear it. You're right, I'm a punk, nothing hurts me more than authority, nothing does me more good than the expression of my revolt against accumulated violence.

It never stopped.
She didn't want to leave me alone.
She was holding me to my body, the truth.

What is the formula? The one that transforms, that of the metamorphoses of being.
I look for it laboriously.
Write like a caterpillar slowly eats its leaf.

Empress, it is true that I am exclusive, I lack detachment from you, I certainly lack friends in this port, the stirring city where I am like dormant water.
I spin my cotton, good or bad I still need a knit for the winter.
Ouch, acute pain that I make hopeful, in which I enjoy glimmers of hope.

Another stupid story…
I met her while playing at the corner.
I'm the wrong player.
Even if luck turns I do not believe that any tactic can get me out of the bad step of having chosen to play. My partner blames me for the end of illusions.
Whatever we do, reality is always stronger and comes to remind us.
It is always disappointing too, at least for those who still dream a little in the hope of twisting it to make it look good. For the one who plays the game to the end, comes the fact of losing.
On a rainy day for example, and the long hair that would bead on the face, that would blur the look. And this salt so fine of the rain that one would come to lick it at the edge of the lips, mixed with that of tears. I would tenderly clench my fist in the wet pocket. A beautiful way to twist the blow and give it allure.
This tireless desire to lose everything to say the stupidity of the game.
I only want to win with the baraka. I like the insolent luck that gives me the assets that no one can refute, which are in my game in spite of me and win despite the jealousy of the opponents.
I don't like false collusion with the partner. It's a social animal game. Animal yes, social no.
What a tireless comedy in fact: having relationships. I will die alone like a dog, having never been able to maintain the bonds of this "asylum" of the world: the couple. An asylum, let's say rather a gap, a distance, a reserve of wild animals that imitate learned monkeys. An exclusive.
My solitude remains my best refuge: a peaceful place of retreat where it is still possible to converse with your star.
My decay in the eyes of the living will be a sign that I have lived only with ghosts to caress them, reconcile them, tame them. Earth is a crazy planet that other galaxies are crying.
And when I think that one day we will smear the moon with our human waste, anguish grips me.
But I digress. The baraka therefore, there is no other work than that of putting oneself on the path of the rotation of the spheres. This simplest, most direct path I know. The easiest. As for fighting, it is always exhausting forces for too little result. We fight weapons with weapons, when it is only a question of fighting unarmed armies.
She was a lawyer. Everything was settled for her on issues of rights and duties, the dirtiest things I know. She handled legal texts with skill, and collected large sums in lawsuits, which her friends – defended by such a beautiful horn – made fall on her in a golden rain.
She lived on what some might seek to harm. God forbid I want Him after that no harm!
Tribute to his defense of the oppressed, disgust with his love of money.

Lestement he travels the expanses populated by the men of the Rift.
Magnificence of the suns that go out at the time of their first extinctions.
You will say yes you will say but what is it and what have I not done to receive in salary this existence so painful oh yes if and so painful?
Today it rains and it is this perpetual tearing on the window: the sky that spreads its pains near my
eye that caresses the glass for simple consolation.
What's there?
There is that it is a new day and that I have to start all over again as every day from the beginning, since the beginning, there is that it is a new day of efforts towards happiness that I will reach only late at night when others are sleeping and that only some like me try to hold their vigil of small lanterns to celebrate the star that streaks the darkness.
Our God oh yes our god have we oh no have we abandoned him?
But what did we do to ourselves?
Is it a world this world can it be possible the world like this?
Stridence of my motionless cry in the stature of the dark…
It would take many more words than that it would take a huge pavement to achieve the turnaround of which you dream and why did it take you overthrown so that you could see and denounce the scandal of this inverted world?
This priestess disguised as a woman and whose power is based on antagonisms.
A woman of power is more desperate than when it comes to a man because a woman would have had less effort to make to understand the gentleness of the penetration of the breath that irrigates the fertile land of her breast, where her heart rests.
This man who knew how to find in him a fertile land of femininity.
Walk the streets the alleys the steep alleys the sharp avenues and boulevards.The colors of the material and the colors of the light.
The first man was and remains red.

A slow time. A heavy pace. The clouds that will not rise today.
The comforting warmth of the interior, but want to leave, to leave this land with too harsh winter demands.
Desire for light. Want to say anything, especially nonsense to better laugh at oneself with a few friends, a balm to the soul than to consider oneself so crudely stupid, without gloriole but with all the humility of not being the good god.

Black sky, sky back rage, sky loaded, sky of threats weighing on my poor little head round as a marble, under this sky so I play pichenette with two three comrades who covet my last agates. A heavy sky of the pain accumulated this winter, a sky that will break under its own weight and burst with the fires of lightning, rumble with the crunch of thunder, a sky that must tear itself apart and surrender to the storm. I am not afraid of the storm, because winter cannot oppress the forces forever, they must wake up so that tomorrow the sun shines. It's a rude awakening, but I
prefer it to too long a sleep. And I quietly lose my last agates.

Soliloquy of the hunted die.
This is. It starts like this. First I give the title and then I fill it with its history. I do things in order. An order that will surely turn out to be chaotic, but hey, an order all the same, which unfolds like the wool that is carded and which is wound on a ball, describing in its rounded meanders a certain geometric shape: the ball.
The snowball. I didn't like these kinds of games; the snow is too cold and it burns. And then just the title, the battle, no, it doesn't amuse me. When the snow covered the expanses of land all around the village, and in the small garden behind the house, and the frost made the trees of the neighbor's park shine with a soft glow that for my happiness exceeded our eternal hedge of cedars, I trusted this strange dormant world. Silence reigned and I kept silent myself in a contemplative look behind the tile.
Tile, Heart, Spade or Clover: the game with the assets that I wondered very early what story they could tell well. And what makes the game unfold like this, the reversals of luck or even the simple observation of the sequence of cards that fall one after the other, played by the protagonists of a symbolic tale.
Christmas balls. I loved them very much, and I said it to the pope, and the brotherhood surprised my saying, and what hidden meaning made them all laugh with the arable? It was cruel, this laughter, in front of my innocence of this saying of love for the pope, this saying ignored by myself.
When I come across cruelty, I ignore it. And I stubbornly didn't want to understand. Intelligence is made for things better than these, such as naivety for example that I have always had the instinct to preserve, before I know, before I learn, before the weight of things drags me.
But the world is cruel, and the world is so intelligent, not for the pleasure and delicacy of intelligence, but to find reasons – as well as ways – to be cruel. And the world hunts us down to every corner to let us know its cruelty.
There comes a day when there is no longer the slightest trace of naivety in itself. So we hunt down in turn.
But I didn't track down others.
I stalked myself. And luck has turned.
And goodbye calves, cows, pigs.
And then I stopped stalking to myself for the stalking in myself, and what was I tracking then? The game. The game of the world in its crazy race of spinning top launched through the excessive space. And taking my own madness under my arm, I began to travel the world I was laughing at.
Prestidigitator, so I took a look at myself.

fellow travelers cast their gaze in the direction of me
In order to check the payment of the price
I am discouraged by their pride
in being real men
While I am only an embryo
Who convolutions for the purpose of developments And who sometimes refocuses on himself
his energy swirl
Like water when the bathtub empties
In the great barter of life
I have already been stripped several times
And after all I am not here to certify anyone
If only already I knew how to authenticate myself
But I pass on things whose value
I do not know Fair for the experience
And if the other loses what can I
not engage him in this exchange
I am the whirling movement of roulette
And I bet and put again
For the sole purpose of playing the game until its completion: the loss
Which is this point at the end of the sentence.

There are hours to spend alone in the midst of others.
Always alone.
Do not get lost in others.
To have one's conscience for oneself, to stand firm in the midst of turmoil.
Let go, let the flow of events unfold.
Maybe nothing really matters, especially not what anyone can think or say about me.
Don't be wrong: don't choose anger.
Remember that I am not a master on board.
Let others do it, especially if they are convinced that they know better than me.
Lose and lose again.
Never take the win if you ever win.
Not wanting to win the case.
Life is a flowing river, watch it distractedly pass.
Crying sometimes but without paying attention: it doesn't matter.
Don't seek power over people, or over the world: rather, let others take responsibility.
Give back to Caesar what belongs to Caesar.
Pay your tribute with indifference.
Let others get agitated around you.
You have nothing to prove. Be Free.
And humble.
And smiling.
Be flexible.
Let the machine do its job, don't let yourself be crushed by it, be the room in which there is play.

You say: "Life is only movement
And you stand still
You must move, yes, it is necessary,
Because it is the law of life. "
I say: definitely I am outlawed
and they can throw me into opprobrium
as much as in a prison.
What I try to know is that I am first a dead
man And then maybe I can take care of living
But if they want to kill me it's easy
I will not kill.
I am not one of those who advance at all costs
– especially when it is others who pay –
Fighting their "necessary" fights And sowing death in their footsteps

I no longer want to pick flower
so that it fades
between my fingers And plants her needles in my heart
Weary! The world can turn well without me
What is this obligation to turn with it?
Standing still and staying silent
Is what I know how to do best
See a winter again

Bloodied Scarlet Auroras already overtaken by the celestial couriers in their insane
fury Awakening to this other day again ready to confront myself
Split and dialectical, arguments and counter-arguments
Until the moment when my eyes close to duality and my ternary eye quotes the bottom of my soul and the intelligence of my heart
Yes it was necessary to shout and renounce everything to know that yes it is the chance that
I have I seize this chance as a young greyhound runs after his hare without ever the prey
Disassemble the grammatical structure and make mistakes that are not due to the fact of not knowing the rule no but rather to ignore it with superb and disdain I want to make say something else to my words I want them to tell the unheard of and untold stories of my childhood
countries What conformism have I not displayed in the world this was the worldliness faithfully meet expectations
I never cry no I still do not cry I stop at the edge of tears and admitted weakness I drink the dew of the fresh mornings of the countryside and I hear the chirping of the birds and it rests me from their eternal chatter here I can be weak
Back to work the land as a measure

Is silence still possible?
When I look at it from the inside, it's a naked immensity.
When I see it in someone else's eye, that's all I haven't talked about.
This is certainly very modern: we must speak. Speaking is a duty. It is necessary to add word on word so that the world rustles enough.
And no one can ever get enough.
I don't wish for death.
I wish this silence removed from the world.
The world is too noisy, too bright, too flashy, always.
My ideal of the world would be an old flm in super 8 syncopated black and white without the sound

It will be a cold night filled with fog in a small town near a canal.
Our meeting will be in a small sad and dirty alley.
My death will have a very bright and very greasy lipstick, she will be made up outrageously, very light blue on the eyelids, red on the cheeks, all on a very thick foundation. She will wear a skirt that will reveal her panties and a dovetailing bustier.
She will tell me that the death is a hundred bullets, and I will follow her in her maze even darker than the night.
I will have no desire, and everyone will be relieved.

He will want to know if true or false.
There will be neither true nor false.
A weight too heavy in the hand, lead.
It always increases a rolling weight to end up approaching
this coast where there is no longer true or false.
Getting damaged, paying cash blow by blow
Clutter, that, black chaos.
Feed a thread.
Tilt, hi.
Usurpation of the false for love of the true.
Distinction from true by discrimination from false.
And he does that sometimes, crazy spinning spinning bypassing the law.
It has a sharp cutting cost.
Crossing, freeing himself.
You would die if you knew, so brittle struggling to finish.
You will laugh, alive, relentless.
Or it will be right, you without a house, a day of softened cardboard.
Swing swinging from the bottom edge to the top edge. Neither true, nor false, nor stop.
Yet it also made cahin-caha
Hiding a thousand defects but you will have it badly cheerful all your portrait.
What did you attach yourself to when you let go of your course? At all to zero to the sparkling minus piece of gold streaking your night, you sink and blacken your days
The walls passing around turning around depicting your course spinning without planes.

In each one I can recognize someone similar to me, sometimes without him himself knowing it.
Usually it rather bothers the other when I designate him as his impersonality.
He hurries to flee me as one flees the poor devil, and to find his group, his belonging, his community.
Me, I then resume my road, expecting to see this aggregate appear with the guinde to hang me. Sometimes I have a nightmare, and it's always you who holds the hemp rope.
I know that behind me there are these words that are exchanged to condemn me, a court that is not so much intended to designate me as guilty as to give a good conscience to the people who compose it.
I will not bother to defend myself, I am free as a man.
If I made a mistake, it's because of that, and it will never make my heart lighter.
The fault has a weight, and I carry it in sight of others, I am not one of those who know how to lie without blushing. And if I bear the blame, and if it sometimes makes the air around me heavier, it's because it's not just mine.
I bear the fault of others, others bear the fault. The world has a weight.

I can only wish for silence and to always hear this silence between sounds, between words, to see the ghosts of the old gestures vibrate on the shadows of the gestures to come. I can only wish for the beyond the grave and it seems to me more sensible than to continue to rely on the world and on life as it goes, that is to say the world with its wobbly approach of beggar in suit-jacket. There have been so many diverse deaths, sweet or brutal, that this people of ghosts is more intense than the apparent number of the variegated. Do not ask me for my identity card because I already live in transparency to such an extent that you will have quickly forgotten me. But in your mind there will remain this indelible trace of my dazzling crossing of your neurons. May this passage have burned many of
them to make you an extraordinary man, a lucky handicapped by this hand in the hat. So it's up to you to invent your geography.

The stage is not a political place intended to assert his corrected well-thought, with annotations of the character by the actor. I laugh softly when I hear all these directors say that you have to be wary of feeling as a game engine. That they deny this feeling does not change the fact that it exists. And all our human relations are today policed in appropriate behavior. Those who hold these discourses are high priests who refuse that spirituality has its source in the body, and that it is with this body that we must work.
The seat of feeling is the guts. It is the place of exchange and transformation. We swallow a food, we remove the juice, and we reject the rest. Those suspicious of sentimental areas should keep in mind that "nothing is lost, nothing is created, everything is transformed". Man must work for this transformation.

I make theater because the world is a madness, and because theater is a madness to oppose it.

Intelligence works with doubt.
To learn you have to work with madness.
Doubt is what limits and corrupts madness.
You always have to be a crazy kid.

The error is not important. What is important is to do. To let the act arise from oneself.
The rest is none of our business.
Sometimes we fall into abysses. It's not a big deal, because we'll get through it.
The fault is rather not to want to plunge into the abyss.
One should not think about the consequences of one's actions, nor the causes of one's actions.
We should not try to find out if they are good or bad.
You have to be carried away by your actions, and so you can learn.
In reality, the causes and consequences are multiple.
It is necessary to rely on the unity of the act, because it is the only one that can be understood in full.
Thus integrity is to know how to assume one's act and to consolidate it by one's attitude.

A cold evening, a gloomy
man An autumn
rambling An itinerary of traviole
A travelo unhinged
Who takes pleasure in playing on the ambivalence of the sexes
A futile
escape An ephemeral
know-how A tenderness to twist the nerves A patience that counts
A timed
tempo A breeze to break the heart of a survivor
Dirty pornography, Sickening
An illusory and desolate desire (of the little / too much)
Ardor always misplaced
As the sun in the time of apocalypse will destroy the earth instead of
It happens one day
And it is the night
Fear of the last second
Forgotten by the absence of being to keep
the memory
As long as I live, I will not
forget And then one day,
What does your scent of dust and shadow
do It is too late to regret
The rule was written
No one is supposed, etc.
O sweetness of the summer
rain To wash the consciousness so acute, so painful
And if I could cry
If only if
My fragility flowed from its source
Rather than cracking the interior
That crumbles
Here are the words
The great farandole of the dental sculpture lip and guttural
On notes in couac
All this for the pleasure of making something of the place where I am
Account for the sadness of insomnia in full hibernation
Opposites tend to the point of distancing
Themselves It is the fate of the one who knows the things
that others want to tear from him:
her The torture of the witness
But like a mute carp I will be
With the benevolence of the turtle
I will watch myself extinguished
In the solitude of the dead
Like an elephant in the cemetery of his own
Too bad for the words I would not have said
I keep them quiet
And no one guesses that it is this silence that should be listened to.

Sometimes I take a crutch. A cognac coffee at nine o'clock in the morning.
The words turn and collide in their crazy round.
No calls today, or so few – we say so little to each other on the phone
Another illusion that works rather well. No sooner does the bell ring than we imagine ourselves less alone. But we are often more so afterwards.
I look madly for the rare pearl, and I fnise by losing
myself There is no happy love, besides there is no love at all. It is only the strength of the nerves that continues to put me standing, me who would prefer to lie there, in the snow, with four or five blood stains to signify my death.

There will be no more questions, never again.
The questions have completed their little circular tour to get lost weakly in a strange look.
The green-gray color of time.
He makes fun of past and future times.
He gets drunk incontinent.
It wanders in the gaps of the cracks of time.
Write down sentences in search of their beauty. A way like any other to give birth to new ideas by letting for once speak something other than reason. Go get the burn deep inside.
My heart is gently and intensely in pain. It's a feeling that comes back to me from that time that I had failed to remember. All this given love that has flown elsewhere, I do not know where, and of which no one gives me any account. Lost love doomed to oblivion.
No one ever told me that I had given him anything other than an object.
They all took back from me the prospects of a life together. Yet they had hoped for the best. But they fled before my gaze lost in bitter dimensions with variable geometry.
I am a multi-faceted man whose others only see what interests them. The rest they leave him to drown.
He and they. Talk about yourself in the third person and talk about others in the third person plural. To consider oneself as the unit of the sum of each of one's fellowmen. Without thinking of themselves all as identical.
A multicolor.
I feel like I'm so useless in my procrastination of strong, dazzling and equally quickly lost feelings. No one knows what to do with a feeling anymore.
Dry mouth that speaks the wind.

The writing begins, and with it the drift, the distance, the exile from this silent zone where peace gave me rest.
This fright of the beginning of the writings that break my heart in shatters.
Beauty is absolutely useless.
It only serves to keep me a little alive, like artificial respiration.
Unfortunately, it is the only thing left for me. It reveals only too much my misery.

Today I have something other than beauty: I have the deeds!

Leo said it well himself
There's enough, fed up, fed up, fed up!
A pond with lackey
ducks That we cook at the bottom of the hold
Yes this bad little there
What society
talks about And we always come back to the same
Things and words that restart
On beings
groping in the maze
Blind and weary
wants They want my skin
I give it as a gift
I do not care as much as they love
each other But the disorder I sow
And would still
like Two lovers
panicked From a link stronger than that
of obeying or dictating
To the orders of the orders
Garbage filthy
So I name
them And I ignore that they are called men
What means that I am
Not They have the hierarchical
verticality I have the curvature of the rush that does not break
And I will spit the chique
That will cut theirs
Of the decoys they
wear A mirror to the larks
A figure of happiness
Calculated by surveyors
Who put themselves at the top of the triangle
And put us, put us, put
us just worthy of crumbs
Heredity still
determines Who can build his life according to his model
Or who must conform to the model of the wealthy
I claim my RMI
As a freedom
Being poor, value of a life
Unconformed to advertising
Attached? says the wolf
So you serve the hunt
Of this dangerousious predator
Who decimates and makes glory
on his crown of superfluous game?
Predator of his own species
So man today
The weapon is money And war
, the economy
He will never have enough
But for me just allow
to gnaw
the bones of his table
Then vomit at his feet
The cicada and the ant
Point is not necessary to work
And feed on TV
Forgetting that wealth
Creates today poverty
And stupidity of those who say
Amen to this society
Vade retro to his damned
I am only a poor devil
That is to say fallen
angel Fallen, certainly, but an angel
And who from the bottom of his abyss of darkness Looks up to the light
And still knows the prayer
Deliver us from suffering
Allow me to hunt
With my weapons
made useless
This futile
logic that surpasses
me I will not be a cog
of the enslaving
machine I will only be grains of sand
Who will shackle the mechanism
Because money goes to money
And I will not
be By the illusory need
Some goods in addition
The highway of the fortune of our regents:
The master picks up the game
The dog has his televised
pie Only
I will not hunt alone
I call the other wolves everywhere
To howl the death of the victims
The dogs to become wild
again And reverse the reverse
order Who ignores that the great
To make the little one
grow Must be put at its height
If money is an energy
Then I say:
All energy received
Must in turn be given
And so any height
Those who still want to grow
And take the size of giant
Reigning over a World empire
and dominant
Those I
say Drowned in their drunkenness
Will spread all their length
We do not deny with impunity
The law of communicating
vessels By rigging what makes the vases
Can communicate
So media empires
Make mass
propaganda But the silence of a tin
bell Will be more listened to
than the deafening
concert of your aluminum organs

In the select districts of the city the roads intersect without main axes, with constant priorities on the right. As that the cars do not go too fast, they do not risk crushing the poor little unfortunate toddler who would come to recover his balloon on the road without having seen the car.
The HLM district is crisscrossed by large boulevards and there are many more children than in these select neighborhoods. Children quickly learn not to cross just any way. Remains a neighborhood skinned by urban planning.The bourgeois must pay something and be able to take pride in what he pays.

In Paris there is the worldly intellectual who despises you.
My left is anarchist, its left is a member.
If I know of a revolution, it is that of the earth on itself where twenty-four hours have passed are just one more day.
My left is an ideal goal beyond the sclerosis of this beginning of the century.
His left is a tactic for the seizure of power.
His left is representative and not active.
His left knows neither hunger, nor fear, nor envy.

I was walking down the street with little hope. My 29 years, my RMI, a deplorable social situation, I felt in me the tip of exclusion, I was crushed by the weight of my defeat and I did not really envisage a slight victory. I had already done it, I had hoped, I had believed, and then the law of the century had caught up with me: disillusionment.
The bitter taste of this lesson had made me want to remember it. So there was one thing to know: not to hope. There is no room for hesitation, or humility: there is only room for wolves who have teeth scraping the floor and who sell like beard soap.

It's January. It's a new year that begins. This is not one of the winters. These are the administrative procedures and these are the contradictory directives.
It is the expectation of the payment of any crate with the guilt of the assistantship.
It is this impression that eating no longer gives strength.
It is to feel any force fleeing from oneself. Is it anemia?
It's going around in circles in his cage like a little rat in his roulette.
It is the nostalgia of the trip in a trailer, it is the illusion that it would still be possible.
These are the noises of the world: a plane crossing national airspace.
These are the rules that govern spaces.
This is the violence engendered by the rule.
It is draconian.
He is a poacher.
It's feeling too much.
It's feeling like you're just being asked to disappear.
Is there a place for someone here?
It is the voice of rebellion imposed on the street, stereotyped, agreed, energized like a young dynamic executive. A cacaille can always make a good salesperson. A story of conversion. From one pole to another.

The new official language
You are on an integration contract. We just perform an infltration to verify your quarterly returns. In the event that the falsification of your declarations is found, we will send you a ticket or put you to work for the repair of the damage to the via publica. There is no need for an arrest. A fraction of your various fees could be deducted. In advance, we ask you not to fear any sanction.
This is just a radical and quick check.
The rationality of our administration is proportional to your respect for social conventions. In these conditions, a prospecting recommendation with a view to obtaining a job is advised.
Practically, you will have to provide the certificates of this aforementioned prospection.
The dissection of your administrative file may undergo delay variations of the order of one to nine months.
During this time, we will suspend your allowances in their entirety.
For more information, please consult our documentation.
Do not be afraid of the factions: they are working to secure our site.
Make your duty of memory in order to bring us the documents of your file.
Your identification number is the 0316024.
Your PIN is 1448. Keep it preciously, it is unique and irreplaceable.
If you do not make any changes in relation to your situation, we will proceed to the confiscation of your property and the crucifixion of your ailments. Amen!
You can consult your file by Internet connection on our website: www.caf.fr
If we were to find artificial contradictions in your declarations, we would launch an authentication procedure. We may be showing a suspicious consideration of you.
If it turns out that you suffer from paranoid or para-psychotic disorders, we will parade with fanfare.
At the same time, you will find all useful indications for the preservation of your sensations at normal temperature in our publication "Let's be zen".
No erasure or scribbling must appear on the certificates that you send us.
In practice, we are tempted to simplify our administrative and language procedures.
Accept our apology if the case is not yet such.

– I differ.
– You say iron?
– No, I differ.
– No, you must be wrong, deferred is only a word more used than for a delay in time. By
that you mean you're late?
– Maybe everything takes too long to be accomplished. I don't have patience. It is also this permanent doubt: what if nothing were to be accomplished? What if all life was just a long wait with no result? One day my prince will faint in the air. Moreover, I do not see where this discussion with broken sticks I do not see where it leads…
You are funny people you psychiatrists. You consider me with a critical eye and the foundation of your practice is to watch beyond my appearance my unconscious. This is what I call suspicion, and I always feel guilty in front of you.
– Suspicion does not necessarily lead to guilt!
"Go and say that to Franz, but not to me.
– If you feel guilty, it's probably because you are indeed guilty.
– You have just made it a beautiful one, of sleeve effect. Moreover, I suspect you are openly playing a tactical game to hide who you are. Or to find a silent way to say it.
That is why it often seems to me that the only possibility with you is to overwhelm me with all possible and imaginable evils. At least I would feel like I'd find the franchise in front of you, which for me is the most important thing in the world.
– So you say that at the moment you are not frank, that you hide evils?
– I say that I am not frank in your eyes. I say nothing more.
– Are you sometimes afraid of disappearing? I don't say die, but disappear?
– I would rather say that I have never appeared, and that with this story I am asked to appear. People can't stand the unknown. Nothing should ever escape reason again. There is no more mystery, there has never been one and above all there must never be any more. You yourself are the embodiment of this boundless will to know.
– What effect does it have on you?
– That of a rape of my intimacy.
– Stop I beg you to reduce everything to sexual things. Please sublimate.
– A theft of my property?
– That's better…
– But I don't own anything. I would even say that it would be me who would be possessed!
– By a spirit?
– No, by scammers! I do not fear possession by spirits.
– Because you believe in this nonsense?– And don't you believe in an unconscious?
– This is a scientific fact.
– Science rots existence.
– You are not a man of progress?
– What progress? The one who makes this planet a poor orange peel?
– Or the one that makes it possible to consider keeping it…
– (FR) I think it is too late for this progress. We had to think about it before. Waste of energy has become an instinct of possession.
– You come back to it…
– I just think it's better to be possessed by a mind than to own a body…
– Are you thinking about the sexual act?
– Stop bringing everything back to sex, please sublimate.
– And own your own body?
– Yes, it is the soul of the proletariat, possessing nothing but its own body and praising it as a labour power.
Nothing new under the sun. At first I was thinking about slavery.
– The working class tends to disappear…
– Here, yes. It is replaced by those who exploit it unconsciously. Our entire society is placed under the sign of manipulation.
– Look, I think we're going to leave it at that. I will simply remind you that you cannot change anything in society or in those around you. So start questioning yourself.
– I just have one thing to add. Your profession is a clergy that advocates submission.
Good bye.

My two great-grandfathers died during the First World War. They served the orders of those who ruled them towards death.
The progress of the twentieth century served the Devil.
And when I contemplate the Madonna who looks at me with her sweet smile, I see little swallows leaving to take refuge in a warmer country.
Exile and migrations of peoples where to find the land of asylum, the promised land for better
days And if we go to the end of this logic of progress and growth, what will remain of this land? Perhaps an outgrowth, a malignant tumor that will tend to take up all the space.
And where would we go, and how can we believe we can replace this sublime work of the cosmos?
And why push it to the limit, why direct it beyond the goal?

The Old Continent exported war to the new worlds.

The crowd was torn and panting in the rain, it cracked with a rumor covered by the sound of the rain, it stumbled on the spot, it moved away, glances dodged cheeky looks, confrontational glances then appeared on the dodger, free-riders tried to free-rider again, each tried to denounce the weakness
. on the other by an internal movement of force, the rule was each for himself and saves who can, no one tried to save anyone, no one touched anyone, the struggle of struggles was prolonged, everyone was impatient for the end of the adventure, all wanted to be the hero, we fought with the multitude against a handful, it is a worn
tactic that to have more allies than enemies, even if the allies of yesterday become enemies of today, the sky spit on this engeance, the light did not come to scratch anything, the pact would never be respected again, some fled the public square, the spitting of the public was added to the spitting of the sky, some tried to temper but goat or goat there is no but, others were running out of steam trying to stay only on the spot, there was no more space, all piled up as if taken by a centripetal force, the lost and isolated individual could no longer claim to
know anything or know anything about this crowd, this crowd amassed, this concentrated energy ready for explosion, the poles ready to connect, a uniform mass without tail or head that nothing would now rotate, there was information that was received and no one for a long time verified it anymore, no one wanted to verify anything, this word was prechecked, pre-controlled, pre-considered, pre-chewed, poorly digested, the tools of propaganda worked well, to this information of a truthful character because scientific was added the hatred against Him, the Forgotten, the Abandoned, the Abandoned, the Constraining, the Demanding. Everyone took his bladder for a lantern and let himself go to forget himself everywhere, and everywhere it had become nowhere.

Here is the story of a man struggling for his survival.
With the years of work, the seniority in his company, he lives a little more widely.
And yet, he begins to poorly digest loneliness, he begins to no longer dream, but only jealously desire every day a little more the goods of the consumer society.
He imitates the bourgeoisie: he begins to want to crush the smallest who prevent him from growing a little bigger.
He blames them for his misfortunes…
He no longer knows this simple gesture – which moreover no one does anymore – to fill the gaps below by the overflows above.
It must be said that for him the laws of competition are not valid only for companies: he too wants to be a performer of society, and he feels that it escapes him, that they are more and more to have more, much more than him. And just as a company is afraid of bankruptcy, it is afraid of its death: its social death, and which gives it suicidal desires. But these he does not listen to, he transforms them into murderous desires full of, in the name of the F*, Hatred.

Communism: 32 million deaths…
O misery!
And who will count the dead of capitalism? For these deaths for which apparently nothing and no one would be responsible: deaths of hunger, deaths of cold, deaths for lack of care, deaths of AIDS, deaths of epidemics, and all this living death of many, diverse and varied exclusions.

I saw bulldozers pushing piles of corpses, as a child.
I therefore had a phobia of public works.
All these tools whose power exceeds that of man seemed to me dangerous threats.
You can fight against a man even stronger than yourself. We risk some injuries, to take everything at worst death. His own death. But not that of humanity.
In reality, man has exceeded his measure.
He exceeds his means.
The beauty of the word yesteryear lies in this reality: with my measure as a man I accomplish what is my responsibility and my way.
So I never believed in the progress of the industrial age.
And today it is no longer just humanity that we are destroying.
We are also destroying our planet.
This is the moral of the twenty-first century.
And how can we not think that any Empire?
And how can we believe that creating has meaning when the earth is dying?
What can be the meaning of the earth today?
The destruction is growing.
Creating is no more than entertainment so as not to see the end coming.
It will just be an end.
So I have to create beyond death.
Hence for me the need to create a conceivable vision, an afterlife.

A bar with the Jupiler brand. From the outside we see above all a rather large space, like the interiors of Brussels.
A district not far from Bourse, but disconnected from everything that can be found at Bourse in tendentious matters. From the street there are large windows, popular checkered curtains that hide the level of the tables but let you see the interior, although it took me to see it show unusual curiosity.
An almost deserted bar, if not this man with black skin, a reminder of his African roots, and with the appropriate accent, proof that it has not yet been too long since he transplanted himself into these grayish climates. He eats his evening dish at the wooden counter. A chatter with this fat black woman idem, her mother earth, about the pleasure of eating as in the country. Black brings together any color in the material. Ebony is golden. From the inside you can hear loud and distant music. There are at the back of the bar two black swing doors that we cross, Anisia, Agnès and
me. The music is much more audible, the baffles are huge, a few tables dotted and not made to admire the track and its stars in the center. All here are Africans, Anisia Uzeiman herself is Rwandan. His skin that hasn't sunbathed in a long time is just a little lighter. Agnès Belkadi herself is Algerian, her skin shows the bite of the sun on her features. As for me, I am French, a foreigner neighboring this Belgium. Anisia knows the mores of these continental African bars, and she orders a bottle of Jupiler, which sells
for a liter for little, which is the water and salt of this land of asylum. A man commits his desire towards a woman, dances his desire for that woman, and there are also two or three male comrades who relax the chain of work. And there is Joey Starr who rolls in the stone of his voice a Mercedes-Benz. It was with this big sound that I realized how much his voice bore traces of accidents from which he did not emerge unscathed, but from which he emerged, despite everything.

The arrogance of television advertising that shines glitter to blind its followers to the fact that something else exists. What? Poverty, for example. She is dignified. There is no need to be afraid of it. Yet television shows poverty only as a dark and dangerous area, an abyss for humans. The small people are poor, the small people who aspire to wealth are poor in spirit. He has lost everything one can learn from life as a poor man, about the alienation of possessions.
There is in the post an adonis possessing – and therefore possessed – who drives at full speed through territories that flee before him as if fleeing before their conqueror (although to conquer a land is to know it, he sees only lines of abstract colors pass before his eyes) and who is in the Very Great Fast as at home. It seems to have been completely removed from the price of the ticket, as the ideal it embodies is left of any price, its purchasing power being so great.
The Coral trip from Marseille to Dijon lasts six hours. When I take this train I always regret the various degradations that took place in the compartment. When you don't have much to yourself, you should take care of it.
Just because I can't pay for the Great Fast doesn't mean I have to find myself in a place that has been destroyed. I will object to any condemnation of my judgment that I like Coral trains, and that I do not like to be made destroyed places. This destruction is a meager sign of rebellion.
There are always various encounters, like those of this zonard with his dog who drank his beer, and various gifts that come to me, like someone who leaves me his Chained Duck (which already advances a little more on the lands of the conscientious revolt). And then when I take out my country pie sandwich and my banana, there is no one to look at me wrong. I can even take off my shoes and there is always room to stretch my legs.

A void. A hollow.
Everything had taken on an absolutely objective, absolutely rational character.
Reason as an automatic reflex to counter the most concrete difficulties.
But I had disappeared as a subject.
I was devastated. I was unable to determine precisely what was annihilating me, I felt only the disgust of my fragility, my anxious sensitivity that makes me seek isolation within others.And this pain that comes out of place.
I drove myself perfectly, like an automatic machine.
The leafy branches stirred with gusts of wind.
I listened to that violent breath.
I looked ahead, after the exercise of driving, sitting in the car, detaching a moment out of the course of time in his tireless race.
There was the barn door of the archetype house. On it a rose window that I had drawn small, in love with the asymmetrical geometry of the figure, and its simplicity. I was diving back into the land of childhood.
In the place where the two swings join, there was this hollow in the wood polished by the multiple hands that had grasped the door time and time again to open it, to close it.
And I thought of the hands of the arable man, big, thick, laborious, and who would never again grasp this common place of wood in the passage of the threshold.
To do and to redo is to work.
Constantly rebuild sand castles against the stalemate of tides and wind.
This tangible sign of the door, this sign of what a life was. This penalty of absence. This joy of the presence of the sign despite the absence.
I could see her hand grasping the door, I also knew that she was not there.
So I cried, and my tears were an experience of death.
My arable artist had this wisdom to know that everything comes back again and again, like the seasons.
As a child, he called me "my little father." My pride in these words to be his equal, just smaller in size.
Father, I am not yet, I certainly doubt to be one day.
I will be for others than my own children.
He would take me with him to the garden and walk barefoot in the ground loosened by work.
I collected in my basket the asparagus that his gouge had lifted from the ground and that he placed on the top of the mound.
I did it with a lot of application and pride in my little work. He congratulated me for tidying them up in the wicker basket. Like taking candy from a baby.

I know you're here. Not very close, but not far away… You are there elusive, impalpable, untouchable, but yet very real. From another reality, probably none, but present.
It is a pain to know you are there without being able to confirm it to the other who would attend our interview. I see you when I close my eyes.
Without you who was related to me I go around the world. He hurts me by your gaze, by your observation of my gestures.
One day I wanted to join you there, and a cat screamed, sifé, in an attacking position.
No doubt this is not my place…
Between death and life there is a threshold, and rules of passage.
I would like to transgress them.
But we both remain on either side of the mirror looking at each other, desiring each other, and not being able to fulfill our desires.
It is a place of lack that is deepening in me, it is an empty place where I annihilate myself.
Bah, when I look at all this agitation that results from the will to concretize, I prefer the vain gesture.
Perhaps I would learn, by dint of repeating the gesture, to cut the stone that will, in a delay, collapse the building.
Because it is not a question of climbing higher, always higher of this architecture, it is a question of leaving free field, so that those who cross it can see far the dimension of the horizon.
Whoever looks from above sees things and people very small, and thinks "Oh, how far I have already come! » ; and he who looks from his place to the horizon, and sees things and very small people, says to himself: "Oh
how far I still have to go… And
this crossroads is infinite.
As for the one who from below looks at what he has to climb, he knows how useless climbing is, and how much this precept: "God", crushes man. And the one who walks, and at some point stops on this plain, turns away and looks from all sides at the horizon, he knows how relative his position is.

I pray that the world will stop its din for a moment. I pray for silence. I pray for emptiness. I pray that the dead will have a void in this world to come and dwell in. I pray to listen to what they have to say.

I flouted the night, I inflicted a wound of time on him, I was carried away as far as possible by demon tempters: now I know that they exist there, in me, in a cave where deceptive shadows parade that I must now coax.
And what if not give up appearing to the day?
The sun blinded me as in the middle of summer rot the rushes of the street.
My silence alone can make people wait for my word, and behold: my word is dead.
Only my silence blooms like an opiate that blossoms in the shadows.

Attentive ear and goodwill, but vision disorders, difficulty navigating in the fog, lack of agility to move in the world, one-eyed and lame, broken ear, toothless mouth and twisted nose.

I do not know how it is possible to say that childhood is a beautiful period. No doubt this comes from the desire to escape from adult responsibilities.
I do not know how it is possible to say that we had a beautiful childhood. Relationships of this age are cruel and stupid. Perhaps it is possible to say this if we have been on the side of cruelty and stupidity.
We live in a time of infantilization. Everything is mockery, cynicism and derision. Indifference is arguably the most important quality today.
Perhaps the greatest trace of this infantilization is the idea that we will soon be done with difficulties and suffering. The primary objective that all set themselves to achieve is a kind of culmination of humanity where there would be no more effort to be made. Communism aimed at such an objective concurrently with capitalism. Capitalism is today alone in pursuing this goal, but this goal has not changed."
Another effort", in reality it will always be necessary to make an effort.
Effort is the human condition.

Only the presence of the good in this world, and his presence alone, without action or will, but committed to the good, his
passive and tenacious struggle to bring to him and heal the evil, will be able to bring things to their relief.

And what will be my reconciliation? And should I even wish for it? Or should I continue to bend under the foul breath of this world from which nothing protects me?
Yet there are many smiles glimpsed, sketched on the edge of a sidewalk where I walk in balance of the road, ready to be knocked down by the slightest burst of sun reverberated from one word heard to another, in the joy of the randomness of this street that will walk its step of man in the innocent sun. There are these musics of words that I made for the happiness of a woman that I had made suffer too much, and these tears that never come in the catastrophe, but always in the sweetness of contemplation after the disaster, like a tender tear to see the world bloom again.

There is this swing of the mechanism of the clock that rocks me, and which takes me away from the fury of the world to drag me to a quiet landscape unimagined, unenvised, not preconceived, which will not be – once is not customary – a disappointment.
This misfortune that always comes from the hope that inflates the liver with illusions that must always be lost.
While I do know as a certain fact that I will die and that I will reconcile in my
outcome. I am inconciliating to the world and reconciled to my death.

With few words. Incandescence. Balance of power. Convergence of directions. Initial point. Threshold of the world and
the afterlife. Place of comings and goings. Passages in both directions. Open or close the door. Hold the key in your fist,
open or closed.
Welcome of the breath. The breath comes and goes. One day he doesn't come and go anymore. He goes one last time. He had come for the first time. Thus life, a forge. Work iron by fire. Take the air there, blow it at that precise place, at the base of the fire. Let the fire rise and rise. Waiting for the rain.

I am not really a good citizen. I am not interested in the problems of civic society. The problems of the world in general are to me what they have always been, an iniquity. A system based on inequality, an inequality on which is based what ultimately has much more reason to exist than all possessions: privileges. It does not matter to a rich person his wealth, but knowing that he enjoys certain conditions, and that these are inaccessible – and by far, as far as possible – to others, this constitutes the essence of enjoyment. But I don't really have the right to speak, because I don't work. So I'm not part of the system, I'm just its parasite.
There is also another kind of enjoyment, complementary to this one: it is the one that little people find to admire the photos of people magazines and to read the gossip of the high society.

The lake frozen by the bite of winter. Body that slides on the ice, dances this slide, joy that twirls while waiting for the return of the light.
Sweet and quiet night. Germinating night. May the night give its sweetness to the day that will come tomorrow. Today's night is no longer worried. She is sometimes troubled by the thoughts of the overactivity of the day before.
Close the door, keep yourself in secret. Do not reveal the secret, make the mystery shine.
The struggle must not be frontal. Always get around the obstacle. Like water, filling limits, eventually overflowing them.
This cruel ray that sparkles on the blade in the middle of noon. The murders take place in the open.

I am a wandering man on this earth. The whole world is my land of exile. I came from elsewhere and I keep the nostalgia of an Eden sacrificed to God.
A thousand and a thousand flowers that naively speak of their sexuality in the perpetual cycle.
Man now dominates nature, but what he builds here is destroyed there.
The indigenous man of the earth is trashing the original beauty. This is the reason for the tears that flow into my heart, my nostalgia for the melancholic lake that makes the mists reign in my deep valley.
So I'm that lonely walker in the crowd, pretending to be similar.
I have dark circles under my eyes that make them believe that I am a fan of artificial paradises. In reality, I saw hell and this vision remained forever etched in my eyes.
I am that woman who collects in her lower abdomen the complaint of the wind swirling within her.
I am this virgin, this round vase where never a man has spat.
I am that whore who welcomes all tears from any tail.
I am that unarmed soldier whose dam of violence gives way and floods a warm.
I am that child who tries not to forget where he came from, who does not know how it was made but remembers before it was made. I am that man who makes an effort of memory to keep this wisdom of childhood.
I am that priest who shares the meat of the lamb and offers a share of it to his god.
I myself am a part of this god and I try to find this same part in everyone.
I am that spectator who says "I don't understand anything but oh what a beauty! ».
I know that beauty teaches me more than reason.
I am that dog that stepped aside to lick his wound.
I am that wolf who asks the moon to join him.
I am that lion that the gazelles flee and who refuse him their flesh.
I am that doe who mourns the stupidity of the hunter.
I am that stone that the frost splits.
I am that snow that denounces blood.
I am the leaf that lets itself be carried away in its fall.
I follow the path that is mapped out to lose confidence.
I am the rose of the sands chiseled by the rose of the winds.
I am the rock that is eroding.
I am the lava that sleeps thinking about the power of its awakening.
I am not a clearly identifiable product.
I do not dictate any personal or official words, my mouth sings ten thousand languages.
I prefer to leave the question unanswered. I am of the opinion that the questions – and their developments – are more beautiful than the answers.
I revolt for a no that is refusal of the easy answer.
I reject determinism.
I am indeterminate.
My heart squeezes in the end.
So I have a taste of its definitive stop.
It frees me to know that time can stand still.
It relieves me to know that things are coming to fruition.
I never leave before the end. A man should never finish until he is finished.
It all ends in a fishtail, which is the symbol of our Darwinian origins.
I am backwards.
I'm waiting.
I eat, I drink. And I'm waiting.
I want to know what's next. And if necessary I will invent it, the imagination having not been given to me as a tool in pure

The world as a game of cubes. A cube has six faces. Six faces form a volume. And so from week to week
build a face, then another, another, a fourth, a fourth, one and another, in order to be able to take this cube
as a seat to build the following week.

Life as a set of cubes, and how to arrange them?
The necessary movement of Brechtian theatre defeated naturalistic representation.
Naturalism would correspond to bourgeois philosophy, that is, to that which followed the revolutionary movement of the FN of the eighteenth century which originated in France.
It appears that the bourgeoisie thought it had reached the end of the road, and that the new order put in place seemed definitive to it: in this sense, it was the return to a paradisiacal natural state that led to history. But here it is: the bourgeoisie has in turn set up an oppressive system, hence the fall of its ideology.
Now comes to me the following thought: and did not communism, which demanded the final struggle, and which set up a new world that never took place, which promised Eden on earth, find itself in the same
configuration? Has he not proved by a bureaucratic system his ability to abuse power and oppress in turn?
The revolution must be constantly renewed!

There are no wonders, there is a desolate landscape waiting for the grass that one day will grow, in another season.
There are those depressions swirling in my blatant sky on an autumn day.
There is a whole world to deconstruct to rebuild at the same time, there is this work of this titan who awaits your humanity to become again a precious and fragile work…
There is that no technique can help to build oneself!
There is that the technique multiplies the means, that the objectives that can be achieved are at potential infinite distances, but there is that the gesture itself, the one whose movement alone counts, is automatic and mindless.
If life today looks like an HDI engine, then I will be a small particle of dust, I will insert myself into the mechanism, and I will stiffen the engine.
I shout to pierce the silence, to make it heard.

Life is sometimes separated into a dichotomy of good and evil. Then it's hell. The Manichean view of life is hellish – and Satan continues his lonely fall. What is needed is to bring together opposites through love – Gabriel, will take this woman, she has never known the sex of angels. Yet it is a merciless fight against evil,
but not evil and war, good and peace.

The woman desires the phallus.
Man desires that his phallus be desired.
The woman decides to no longer love the phallus, but to grant herself one.
Man desires to be a woman.

I decided to be a hermaphrodite.

There is never any certainty of victory, and the struggle is painful.

The land does not belong to us.
That is what we should learn from hunting.
Hunter or gatherer societies were the first to exist.
The hunter, when he took game, had the feeling of having disturbed an order of the world.
This world is the world outside of man and that he cannot control: that of the forces of nature. Nature is sacred.
By what right does man kill an animal of nature?
He grants himself, because he must live too.
But to be forgiven for having disturbed nature, he offers the gods and goddesses of nature a part of the game,
before feeding on it with his family.
This is the only true sense of sacrifice I know.

The world is a sad orange peel, which is planned to be discarded when you have drunk all the juice of the fruit.

There is no real hope in this: no plans on the comet. Don't draw projects on what doesn't belong to you!

The plain washed out by the rains oozes.
The leaves on the branches drop drop drop by drop the beneficial water to the roots that rises through the trunk to them. The forest has its lost trails that only a few pickers know. In the undergrowth are the blackberries of August, mushrooms of September, snow of winter and lilac of May.
And in winter in snowy weather we cut the wood. We will come to look for it in the first days of spring to take it out, we will stack it, we will saw it in the summer and we will burn it next winter.
The heat of the fire for the time of rest.
The sap of the trees comes down in winter.
The cold that invigorates the vigorous and numbs the poorly stretched gourds.
And the time of reading in the evening in the ring of fire.
I will pass my hand to the flame to prove that these were my finest hours.
But in the summer, my god, in the summer my hand would burn.

Man tries to master more and more domains, but the totality will always escape him, because the universe is infinite.
That is what we should be thinking about. To the vanity of our presumptions.

It could be thorny and bushy mazes in which the courteous court is made and we get lost we find ourselves lost and find ourselves so does not go life no it is not so a trajectory mine that I shape with the force of the fist to continue to direct me towards which I do not know but it is important to continue and not to give up and not to turn back path never I have been given a broken mirror so that I contemplate in the eyes of others my eternal misfortune in their formidable mine while my broken mouth as I am such I become a little more every day my face shows my wounds and how I defend myself that is to say very very badly all I am a very very very bad soldier in this war that moreover I did not choose to do but which is still my necessity every day because we must not let the striker I lost I had nothing left but a shirt I played again I still lost now I can say that I play my skin now I can say that I will leave him there despite all the assurances that we can take against this we try to guarantee some may have a good life but we can say that I will leave him there despite all the assurances that we can take against this we try to guarantee some may have a good life but we
all without any except we will share my death it is so it is written we have the time that it is necessary we use it as we want me I do not know how to handle this tool but it is however necessary that the ephemeral burns and what comes after I do not know no one knows and yet I can say that I make my life considering this which means that I do not expect anything for the after but that so many things in the front seem to me not worth it to use his strength I seek I snoop I look for something that could be worth it here I make my life considering this some will say that I
waste precious time my faith I return the compliment and why would I desire so these summary trivialities what weapons it gives me for the only the real fight defeat death

At the whim of the powerful I execute. I fulfill their will, which is that I produce for them wealth of which no profit belongs to me, for me just enough to lead my little life of small daily tasks that I have difficulty to hold in my hours of leisure. In my leisure hours I only have the opportunity to ensure the sustainability of this movement: washing my home, making me eat, washing dishes, washing my clothes and washing myself, all acts so as not to lose my dignity, out of self-love which is perhaps the only one existing in my sad life.

My work is thankless not by its nature, but by the lack of gratitude I receive for doing so.

Consume – produce – consume – produce – consume – produce – consume – produce – con…

Does my life consist only of those few hours I spend working?
Not the courage to get up in the morning and face my uselessness. All this time not knowing what to do with it.
How sad. But still no tears.
My dramas are small dramas, they would not make a book, yet for some small wounds what violence did I not feel. Nevertheless, these are uninteresting dramas.
What I would like is to get out of this mold that imprisons the bubbling matter of my soul. What I would like is to explode the mold.
What I would like is to grasp what is beyond me. It is that the dormant force that is lurking deep inside me wakes up, without tearing me apart, it is taming it, it is that it rises to the surface slowly. It would require an expert hand.
The forms change, the background remains the same, bowels to decipher.
Where are we now?
A lost point on a map, and no compass.
So make this relative position, with loss of landmarks, the very heart of your decision of absolute. The absolute, it
does not exist, it is invented. And this quest for immediacy is eternal.

In every act of my life, there is the negating ghost of this act that comes to haunt me and gives this act the aspect
of tortuosity.
This makes my act a struggle in physical reality and at the same time in the invisible metaphysics against this ghost.
Experiencing this, I never have the carelessness of the free act. Every act is a necessity for me.
Difculté experienced to possess positive ghosts in which could be carried all the strength of my faith.
For this to happen, my I must realize that faith is also an act – ! –

Overwhelmed laughter scuttling the industrious pirates and capitalizing
I do the work the old-fashioned ten hours a day: the time required for the support of this direction that I give to nature so that in turn it gives me what it has of substances
How to support life
How to oppose weeds that will not
feed me But encor I could grow some of them as simple medicinal
I know intuitively that there is rhythm in my phrasings
I do not count the feet of my prose
For the one who would like to analyze there would be matter
But all this is not built
It is only nature, mine
I have a wide heart and what my mouth says is what my heart
says And so now it is up to them to pronounce the words
And to say the bottom of their thoughts
Although I prefer
Not to be there at low tide
There would be some shells
But already they are too polluted

If your heart sinks on bitter waves, think of me.
If the mountain ridges are too steep, think of me.
If the paths slip under your footsteps, think a little of me.
If you are lost in the virginity of a dense forest, think of me.
For there is no ocean that I have not tamed, of peaks that I have not climbed, of roads where I have lost myself, of virginity that I have not deflowered.

I who want life to be a stone cut in its diamond purity…
I who desire that knowledge be silent for the benefit of wisdom.
I struggle not to scream my despair in an incomprehensible desert.
I know, however, that if this desert had the will to hear then it would know why the grains of sand
wander according to the winds.
But nothing is decided that way.
But roses are born out of uncertainty.
Art is never more than an imitation of the sand rose, the compass rose.
It is possible to do this artistically, it is not possible to extend it to the entire realm of existence.
And yet it is good to know how to exist that it is, yet art gives the immense extent of our faculties.
But if in art conventions are used, conventions concern both the everyday field and they use the fabric of the possible.
But a word, a sentence such as I have never spoken or written
A hieroglyphic
interlacing Intended for a human whose gaze
would grasp like a hand is seized
A sense still unheard
A bit like one commits a theft
Of something that no one would ever
have thought that it belongs
to him And if by bad luck
Someone would have come to know
that this is also his property
He would have got rid of
it For do not play bad luck Not
to tempt the devil
Running always behind the purity of the sails
Of this one I would still
speak Not to forget this one

There is no time and there is no space. Always and anywhere, this is the prize won at the wheel of fortune of the great fair of life.
Exhaustion, fading of thoughts, systems that are so many prisms of reality, and no way to articulate this together, it is only nuances to go from one to the other, I would like contrast that finally draws a body.

The flower is afraid of herself, of her fragility
Write sweet words on the page, caress
her give her a few kisses at ten cents
And then it cancels out,
And the mule remains with her burden
The back turned to the emulators
The black mass makes me a wardrobe
build Because when the straitjacket
comes It is already too late to get rid
of it Iron fist that keeps you enclosed
The wish remains pious, and a murderous
stake Mirror allocated to seagulls, Marseille and its schools of fish that flee and flow back into the street of the draft
The old woman has a rag for fichu
This is the continuation of the story.
The other old woman has character,
Always ragged for trifles
The world is badly.
Leave so as not to return, and listen to the wind that brings us from the distance the tears of our neighbors
A simple opening through which I sneaked into the world
A deep tear accompanied by cries and colors

A wild howl in the face of the world to make him understand all the opposition that there is to put against him, afn
to protect himself, afn to preserve himself, afn to preserve in himself what is best, and which would decompose on his
manure. A cry to make this inner silence heard, which would come after, later, a cry that reveals the prayer made
for appeasement.
I love the happiness that comes after sorrow and that still contains that sorrow, that contains it within itself
as a counterpoint.

The law is not man's business. However, man makes it his business.
What is man's business is to cry over misery. This should be the essence of justice.
But human judicial institutions only protect wealth and ensure that they do not change hands.
Criticism is easy, easy also to plug your ears with wax as one hides the state secret from the seal of a Minister of the Interior, after an arms sale for the establishment of the next dictator who will fatten our democracy.

I am carried by the earth. Yes, the earth carries me.
I surrender in my breath, I let go, I surrender in my breath with vulnerability, because it could be the last. But it is not the fact that I hold it, this breath, that will prevent it from being the last.
And if this breath were the last, I would accept it, I do not want to freeze in the fear of death.

On the side of the hill, at the place where the sun shone with a gentle famme and warmed the body by stinging with ardent rays, he left the chimeras of time, he forgot the life of society, he reconnected with nature mother, he became man again for men.
Yes, this is where I come from, he said to himself, and I forget it every time in ancillary problems, in abstract thoughts, in certain pains and pleasures of life that are diversionary.

Should men ignore the depth that constitutes them? Can they only forget themselves through the social function?

Empathy, sympathy, antipathy, so many words that designate pathos.
But what is this will of a cold monster who wants to be without pathos?

It will be in September. It will rain. I will have stayed inside the house, watching the rain meet the sea. I would have lost myself in this view. I will forget myself for hours, I will have a sad, nostalgic and melancholic soul, I will be alone, and I will not know how to behave in front of life.
I will aspire to give up the fights to join this water, this water that never ceases to fall liquid, to rise vaporous, to freeze icy.
Fear of the conflict that makes me move away from the world, want to get out of the battle, to give up the struggle. I know that some are thirsty for the desire to lead the boat, and that they are leading it well into the hell of this world, struggle and war. And I feel powerless to engage in a dialogue with them, they know so well that I feel in advance all the uselessness of making efforts to change the course.
Want to let the world go to waste, want not to get dirty in contact with this absurdity. Just laugh about it.
It will be in September, and the wars will continue long after me, it will still come from those who know, it will always come, blinded with certainties, and the world will die, and I will prefer to die.

I recorded tonight on a friend's mobile phone "I was thinking about my arable".
It doesn't happen.
No one understands this sentence.
It disturbs too much for no one to keep their conscience clear, and understand.
My arable is dead.
My arable man died in March.
The giboulées of March.
There was a lot of snow at that time, one day the sidewalks were icy.
A friend fell and injured his eyebrow arch.
Poor arable…
He was in the general hospital, in intensive care.
There were many machines around him that kept him alive.
The people in the service were very nice.
They could not reassure us much, there was no explanation or concrete hope to give about the fate
of my arable.
There are things that still escape science. There will undoubtedly always be.
The machines bothered me. They made noise with their mechanisms and electronic beeps.
We would like to gather near our father and it is impossible not to hear these noises.
The machines were trying to replace Dad's brain, which no longer mastered the elementary forces of life.
Inspire. Expire.
He had a hose in his mouth to sing the breathing movement.
Poor arable…
He was talking. He would be delusional.
He asked to detach it and it was difficult this time to disobey.
He had his feet and hands tied to his bed.
Once he had untied, stood up, fell, injured himself.
Bandages had been placed around his hands so that he would not use his fingers.
He said, "Pope, take off my mittens. I want to get up and put on my ski boots, give me my poles."
He loved to slide on the snow in winter and walk in the mountains in summer.
It was his vacation.
The rest of the time he led two lives in one.
One at work.The other…
Get to work.
At the table he fell asleep. After eating, he held his towel with both hands at both ends and it made a blindfold where he dropped his head.
Poor arable…
He had had a stroke two years earlier.
Since then it could do much less and was languishing like a plant that needs light.
At the funeral we planted the arable tree in the ground.
He was a good man's seed.
He had planted billions of seeds and taken care of plants throughout his life.
So tonight I thought about my arable man.
In the same way that we water a plant.
But no one understands that.

Like a desire to let life drift. Why always clinging so much, what did this delirium that hid its truth mean?
Love of the broken place, missing money for repairs. Life is there with its signs of weakness.
My finger sliding down your cheek, wiping away the flowing tear. Sweetness has this price of water that the eyes pour, because by making yourself sensitive to the beauties of the living, you can not escape its hurtful wounds.
An eye that shines, shines with joy, cruel joy as all joy is intrinsically, delivered in front of wounds.

Arable, there were indeed times when my feeling turned to sour wine of hatred against you.
Rage against you.
All this is no longer in season.
Today I tell you to leave in peace. All our old and futile accounts are settled.
My fire that has washed itself is now ravaging only myself.
I remain alone exposed to the burn of this sun that hides the stars that you will leave to join.
I will still writhe under the pain of having irretrievably lost a being who could have decided to receive my
I strike myself not with remorse or regret but with struggle without an enemy.
Then I will still be that one for myself.
Whirlwind of winds, twist of my nerves, downward spiral, foul-smelling sighs, crying on the arid ground of my cheek – I always cry with only one eye, the real one.
Whisper in my ear the split of my souls, do not turn your gaze away from the cutting of the plots delivered to the tares of my monotonous plain and remember again the complaint of the wind crumpling a shivering ground.
From these fragments of pottery I would try to make a new vase infused with a new soul.
I destroyed myself conscientiously, with all the application required from a professional client of the employment agency.
I still have remnants of old debris that I pound to return to dust.
I have a dry throat and a drunken thirst.
One day I will drink my setbacks to the dregs. They have sedimented in the bottom of the red sea blood that bubbles enclosed in a fevered body.
May the wound close on the soldiers of these armies of my dark years of slavery and let milk and honey return.
When love is silent, death restores detesting themes.
Hear through them my helplessness.
Read between the lines that you are, forever and ever.
May this silence make the universal harmonies vibrate to your ears.
You will have for you the archangels, I remain with the pain, this unique humanity.
Let the soc turn my guts over to expose my heart to the next rain.

The train will depart from Dijon station at 6:30 a.m. The traveler heard the alarm clock ring at 5 o'clock. He immediately stood up,
in regret at the loss of dreams doomed to oblivion of the awakening.
It was dark this morning of November 29, 1998.
He filled the Italian coffee maker, put the coffee on the fire, and sat down in the kitchen chair.
He refused the foggy state of this awakening and did not want to sit there without doing anything, because from nothing would awaken something, and he only wanted nothing. Thus he rolled a cigarette and smoked it, appreciating this gesture which allowed him to keep the nothing in the attention he paid to the flavor of the smoke, to the burning of his lungs, to the ash that was to receive the small subcup placed on the table.
And, now it started again, no way to stick to the moment and the sensations of that moment.
Memory of this dead corpse of having smoked too much, and absurdity to kill oneself, and would he subject his relatives to visits to the cancer department?
It's like coffee, you'd have to have tea, it would be better for your nerves.
Self-control had regained its rights, and already the hellish day.

Pure immutable imperfection: life.

Why have I forgotten for so long the naïve lands of childhood?
What had I done with this treasure trove of unpretentious innocence?
I have always had a flaw in me, similar in this to any other being of humanity.
But to see only that it is a blindness on everything else.
From my father I am left with this buried treasure of simplicity, of humility that there is to dig its furrow in the terminals of
our field, our small expanse of being to cultivate …

The man who smokes sitting on a powder keg.
Everyone condemns man, the unconsciousness of his gesture,
But: who installed him on the powder keg?
When the world is a powder keg,No
one should smoke anymore,It's
a logic,But
who will take care of disarming?

May my way never follow the cursed trail of tragedy.
And yet how much I admire the disproportionate strength of these men, yes, this force that exceeds the measure of man and yet cannot go beyond that of oppression.
That I am able to cry over my human limitations and that these tears flood the arid ground on which my steps raise dust.
I want to walk like that goat keeper who leads his herd
to graze with this awkward walk in the wet earth whistling.

What is this stubborn struggle I am waging against myself? What is this bitter fight?
Would there be an inability to put oneself within the reach of the present and accept not to understand? Probably with doubt

I put myself in a position to take the attacks of others. I refused to defend myself.But no credit is given to a coward.
Would you trust a man who doesn't distance you from him when you take a bad step in his direction?
There are good trajectories to go straight to the heart of the other.
But it's not about that.
The thousand detours and the thousand tricks constantly ask us to appeal to intelligence where we would like
to pour out our heart and quench its thirst at true sources.
Never let a thief take all the best out of you.
You have to fight against others, too, sometimes.

But what does she have to do with me?
Life has a taste of iron
And war today
I only want to get out of my trench
To run under the bullets
Hoping that one of them reaches
me She loves
me Like an icon
In front of which burns a candle
So that we can think of something
else But when the icon itself goes out No one to rekindle

It This other is a vampire
Who sucks my hope
Despite all the despair
I put to live
Null does not worry about
my wobbly
life And I who am near the fall
Everyone calls me to support
him This is the part of the angels
And a dog would not want it for piee

Ample. Abound. Improve. Welcome. Accompany. Animism. Atom. Alloy. Alchemy. Artifact.
Malleable. Machine. Martel in the lead.
Oracle. Prayer. Olfactory.
Usual. Universal. Join. Unanimous.
Entice. Ardent. Aggravate. Amenity. Water. Oats.

You, you ask me a riddle.
An enigma that has no answer.
The only way to answer is to believe, or deny the question.
And I dare not believe.
However, I will never deny the question.

And why, and why, and why,And
why notMe find a time in your arms,Yes
, it could be that you agree to seize me,You
tell me charming and I find you charming,Pleasure
of this little breeze that swirls in our minds
And that makes its music like the wind in the branches of a beech.
You have a face that invites me to travel with you,
That reminds me of a land a little further south
, Closer to the South, a land of asylum and peace,
The multiple smells you deliver,
A drunkenness with delicate perfumes juxtaposed,
A drunkenness of the completeness of these perfumes.
Your eye is a precious stone reflecting the light of your smile, a black glow.
Your mouth, O your mouth,
She savors the words she says,
She deposits them in me and makes me taste them,
So that I can speak in my turn about these flavors.

And where does my pessimism take me?
And can't I be blind in innocence to perpetuate the gesture?
And in this gesture there is hope and expectation of a living afterlife.

I don't know anything about you, don't you know anything about me?
Of course you do, you know me in the biblical sense of the word, and that is the greatest knowledge of being.

In the garden flows a living source of pure and clear water.
The herbs are crazy all around, crazy with love for this source.
They have the impossible desire to quench their unquenchable thirst.
They carry flowers to venerate the beauty of their love.
They create artifices that are difficult to ignore.
They listen to the spring cry its joy of pouring out in the luminous beauty of the dawn.
Love is a fire that consumes an absence.
Absence is a hollow that calls for touch.
Touch can only touch the absence.
It requires a lot of delicacy to caress a being who thinks elsewhere.
To make it come gently towards oneself.
It takes as much tenderness as there is lack.
The human being is a precarious balance.
Nature is a reflection of this. And it's not so foolish to think that you have to sacrifice a lot to that natural balance where each
thing is based on another.
Love is not reciprocal.
She thinks of him when I think of her.
No doubt someone else thinks of me in the touch of another.
Love is a bitter consolation. An ultimate remedy for one's own evil.
And it doesn't always succeed.
The sigh is a continuous wind that whistles a small refrain.
He makes the draw wobbly.
A crippled tightrope walker.
Some put a lot of effort into limiting this cyclical series by the limit of a conscious and reasonable choice.
But it doesn't matter since that's not what I'm talking about. I am talking about a broken path that nevertheless continues to travel its path.
There is a messy world that never ceases to defy logic and its method.
It is made to get lost in it. Probably the only way to end up discovering the snippets of meaning.
A mosaic from which one must deviate to know what it draws.
A puzzle where there is always the missing piece.

I just love the little reflection of light she has in her eye, a promise without fulfillment to come, but already a gift in itself.
This is perhaps the secret of hope without despair: a free gift without return.
A small light lit in the corner of the eye, and watching over the other.

There is sometimes a bitter wind that swells on the plains, your soufe to you is always warm and soft between your fleshy lips
. There are words you say, I'm not talking about the ones you say indiscriminately, I'm talking about what
I hear when my hand caresses your waist.
Eighteen years and twenty-eight. It means absolutely nothing since you already know how to wipe with a laugh my sighs of weariness
and make me sigh again after you.
You are an alloy of strength and fragility, of carelessness and of that knowledge that one has when one has already
returned once from everything to that essential point which is the ink of the depths.
I wish to be a sun-drenched marina where you can always come back after the days of sailing.
If one day you need fish, take me in your flounder.
If one day we fall behind, then let us delay our watches and neglect punctuality. Time has
absolutely no importance: ten years will never separate us.

Journeys of runaway childhood,Sadness
of departure and abandonment,Disappointment
of incomprehension,Leave
if necessary
Farewell, I will not
come back,I put my steps in the hand of the wind,I
do not know what direction he takes
Because he does not stop
Like a thief in fair
Pirouette on the merry-go-round of life
And plays from the start his best cards
Greater is the risk
The more life has taste
And after all the flavor of losing
is not so bitter
Because it contains the sugar
Of waiting for the turn that will come
As luck turns

Verbal aporia: use words of little to say it.

Spleen, this is how we call by a glorious name a state that is due only to a few trifles, a love lost at the bottom of an alley in the maze of the city, a lost path and a lost look. When the weariness is at its peak and we
would gladly let go of this little life that we hold at the end of our arms down.

Painting flowers as an act of resistance.
This image is the icon I pray against.

I laugh with you. I laugh carefreely, lost, inattentive, distracted, head in the air and throat clamoring to the heavens.

I love you in an involuntary way, like the air passing through a breathing body, I live you without thinking about it.
You accompany my pain, you are the force that makes me accept it, you are the balm that soothes it.
You are the one who reconciles me with the other, you are the one with whom it is possible to be imperfect, you are the one who reconciles me with my defects. My flaws are instincts born of wounds and it is better for me than to accept them, because otherwise they rebel against me and I no longer have any control over them.
A kiss of your sex and here I am in the tumult, in touch with my first instincts against which I struggle to get to give you something.
Pleasure of sleeping by your side after the battle, when no one has won
I left you only after you have blessed me with your enjoyment.
Eat with you, watch you eat, enjoy the food that fills our mouths, simple gesture, make you eat by taking food from the dish, making a bite of it, and extend this bite to your mouth with my hand, with your fingertips.

If the fire is still burning in my heart, if the flame continues to rise to the sky, if it gives off light in my
mind, then there is still a chance to achieve it.

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