[…] it was at the same time very static, very pure, and very connected to the essence of things, maybe because we were doing almost nothing, maybe because we were…
Bare-chested on the terrace
hidden from view,
at the garden table on top of Marseille,
around ten o’clock in June on Tuesday,
I write in my orange notebook.
I have thoughts, uncombed hair, a single…
I write because I can’t,
not write,
anymore. I try again and again to catch
something,
this thing,
but the truth
is that I like to sit down with myself…