Dazzling, the truth is lost in the forest of my hands. Its shadow falls, grows heavier and worsens my pace. My eyes, more than calcified, locked themselves in their cupboard, obsessed by the boreal traces of their discoveries. The answers hang upside down from the ceiling of a cavernous cathedral. At nightfall, they come out of their den to hunt the hypotheses.
My dreams are made so that they foment my sleep and offer me heterogeneous grammar and syntax. Like dolphins, they kill the Unconscious until they trigger its anger.
Then the truth loses its means. She lets herself be clothed by memories, the sum of her karma. It becomes jokes, lies, disguises, decorations and tinsel, no doubt proud of not belonging to anyone, certainly not to me, because I only age by singing.
I live only by crushes on the anvil of my destiny. No morning, no twilight succeeds in chaining certainties. Any truth is not good to say since, in any case, we do not know how to capture this. Our wings are dissolving. Our waxed gazes, stuffed with tattered spectacles, vanish in light and hope.
What is this circus for, apart from entertaining us? Who decided on this perilous path that leads us individually to silence? Is it a fall or an ascent?
The closer I get to the sun, the more my shadow pulls me towards the earth. Each spilled ink bleeds my delirium. I am just that, an entity, a spark or a quiver of air.
The abracadabra of life departs easily from its spectators without the dance ever ceasing. What could I offer to taste you, immobilize you? Does my wonder guarantee my salvation? Can you hear me?