Françoise is summer. Françoise, time spent. A framework of life. A presence, constant, generous, comforting. Françoise is the essence of things. Françoise, summers in Sussargues, the cracking floor of the veranda, the parasol we kept moving to eat lunch under, the monstrous snoring on the sofa, and the flock of…

Recorded voices come in through the window. It reminds me of my Mexican studio. June, I take off my shirt and leave it on the desk. It smells like my mom’s laundry. The sky is all blue. There is something alive in this blue sky. It looks like a beautiful…

The first cicadas woke up today. Their song mingled with the smell of sun-warmed pines, and I caught a glimpse of the south of my childhood, the south of Sussargues. This morning, everything was blurry. I dived under the surface and everything was deaf. …

I had caught a glimpse of it that afternoon, alone in Costa Rica. I couldn’t say where it came from. From what thought it came from. From where the light had come. Suddenly I understood. There is no purpose to existence. I often wondered how I managed to get to this…

The wind blows strongly in the branches of the tree that overhangs me. From right to left. This time I prefer silence. I like this place, even if it’s in the city. It smells a bit like my source garrigue, that of my grandparents. Dirt paths that slip a little and…