I do not understand at all, the sun playing
invented colours several inches deep, which for the moment I am
studying. Now I have never reached the inevitable moments of
uncertainty, like those of glass at fairs, ready to let
themselves in to salute the sky. I would get lost among the black
stone of sleep, having the precise geographic location of
paradise hidden within the ruthless religion of trees. They
understand the surgical aspect of the term. As strange as the
series may seem to the flies, in order to regain it, we had to
backtrack behind the universal word. Please, do not expect me to
suddenly become flesh. I imagine someone wrote these sentences.
They are yours. For inside of me I have heard people laugh at
what remains blind. I ask you, with each letter in the word, have
you dreamed to catch a glimpse of the possibilities you could
have had, present to us in a stroke of lightning played at full
speed. One must at all costs produce ghosts of depths whose days
are numbered. I recall having seen my childhood, a stranger to
crystal, like those phonemes caught in ink, in the swelling of
the flood. I have forgotten the one-three-one-four-one-six
meaning of words; its double representations are shredded by the
winds. For an instant we shall plant the dream of roots into
unfathomable depths. It is this inexpressible thing which braves
the void in the name of emptiness. I am only a word. Will you
read me when I no longer write? I imagine, so many people die
anyway, that all discovery is only where two looks meet.
$t. Mathieu