Tuesday, December 12, 1995

Tuesday, 12 December, 1995

The very beginning, it already seems positively insolent in its immaculate elegance, so swift it lacked nothing. Deprived of all basis that guides or releases. The questioner, and so. Despairing of ever understanding the primacy of this simple, multiple, diffuse fact. The history of life somewhere else. Even the intervals laid out. So many bodies in each other, lying immobile and frozen upon the strata, together as if to applaud bad luck, and injustice, in the vague hope that something might happen. The dissolute Court Of France, no doubt. Only by little white clouds. The chimneys fall between the buildings and acquire a body almost exaggeratedly visible. Shouting and barrel-organ playing. Ribbons, buckles and flowers. Such obstinate moods. Quickly they suffocate, beautifully, clinging, hardly anyone can prevent, little bones and smooth skin. Paper, like a silhouette. The sky, in order to catch. A low monument, blackened here and there, the seated thin bars, then men who say goodbye to someone going away.

Orchids and wasps. The earth's last world. You have wandered in circles around the ailing or dead figure, pierced back to the string, in the eyes of everyone.

Here you are returning, arriving over and over again because you claim to exist outside matter.