Nobody comes back from this season.

I could be wordless, lost in a cybernizing universe where moon and sun, trees and wolves mingle. I could gorge myself on labyrinths and algorithms; my mind is utterly ablaze with the colours invented by a robot that gobbles up everything, remembers everything and sums it up for me according to what I feel like living and eating.

I could drown in a puddle of illusory images with no future if I'm not careful. Pluto is already monopolizing my mind. He flies over his ocean of lava, his long, pure white wings whispering snow.

I can say anything, trying to understand my moods and make sense of them through my fingers moving over a plastic keyboard. I listen to my existence.

And I wonder if the monks at the top of their Tibet pretend to meditate when they dream. Do they touch the opaque diamond of Knowledge with their desires? Or does the opposite occur, their swollen senses guiding their phantasmagorias? What matters, to know or to love? Can I live both? Is it pointless to wish for it?

I might be young, but my body already breathes differently. It's no surprise that time flies, but I'm still surprised. I insist on living, yet hardly lift a finger to do so. I'm as motionless as those patient androids waiting to be turned on. I'm an already frozen dream, a gentle monstrosity of unconsciousness.

I live only in a room momentarily carpeted with spring. I have yet to learn about the coming winter. No one returns from this season.