Cet amour-là

"Elle dit: non, ne pleurez pas, ce n'est pas triste, en rien, en aucun cas. Il s'agit de vous et de pas vous, oubliez votre personne, ça n'a aucune importance. Il ne faut pas se prendre pour un héros. Vous êtes rien. C'est ce qui me plaît. Restez comme ça. Ne changez pas. Restez. On va lire ensemble."

Yann Andréa


And she hates herself for thinking of it of what of the time passed in some sort of enjoyment that is was true time to erase time to forget time to destroy by turning into a snail a slug a dribbling creature of God.

The girl on her bed her legs wide spread with the evil smile reflected all around
The tip of the tongue, bleeding son of a bitch
Mary mother
Put a gun in her mouth

What is expected, mastered in all languages. Never decifer the back of her teeth, some inscriptions are just made to stay wet. It's so much easier to read between lines than to accept the wideness of all screens. Their obvious truths that are crude that are touchable.

She yelled, the cat fled, and a child was fed. Long ago, in the midst of a dream. He had a tiny belly and a stick in his had. He just wouldn't let go. Who are we to judge?

Brains sucked to death. And leaves flying. Always flying.


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