01. Subtle Conspiracies
I’m asphyxiating. Feeling like being in mourning, unable to break with the past and its ghosts. Disfigured. Why should I move. I’m not writing : i’m coagulating. There’s no memory, no nostalgia, no certainty above the horizon. Never. Everything is dark. Definitively. Time is a poor murderer that sinks into my veins, swallowing seconds. One by one. Tirelessly. I wish I could listen to it, chewing the flesh of my soul. Just once. This only happens between him and me. Corpses of my dreams are scattered on the ground and I, condemned to wander between these four walls, find a certain pleasure to lick the dust. Sometimes I soil white pages, endlessly, sentences extracted from my sick brain, unlikely notes, indecent punctuations, to snatch time to time. Everything is connected. Interpenetrated. Fragile and deep, coming from the abysses. I smother my anguish as hard as I can. Words as a throbbing and elastic thread, both nourishing and toxic, or a cord between me and the others, that I gnaw slowly and secretly, to preserve my freedom. No matter how much it costs. I need to escape without looking back. I need to breathe a new air, and embrace a new continent perhaps. I have nothing to lose. My time is running out. Some doors have to been kicked down again to leave without regret, and find a meaning, a direction, a beach, just above the wind. I’m an eternal iron-eyed wolf. Yes, I admit.