Two nights that I cannot sleep. Life is escaping me. Time passes by. We?re rarely connected with the others. Never mind. I don?t know the codes. I?ve tried to talk to you, spread the words on the asphalt, draw a fleeting smile, and hang thousands of stars in your eyes. I?ve tried to find your scent in anonymous arms, made ??of flesh and steel. I?ve even tried to auscultate the vacuum to detect your ethereal breath going through motionless bodies. I?ve tried, in vain. And I?ve stumbled over puddles of memories, with an aftertaste of distress in the hollow of my veins, holding back my tears. I?m just a silhouette among others, fading away without knowing why. I feel so tired, apart from myself, dealing with a fixed body and intertwining thoughts that soliloquize silently. Words collide, without being able to escape. The mouth remains quiet, shuddering in pain. Being silent to better scream one?s despair and write it down, with trembling hands and burning cheeks. Walking on broken mirrors with lacerated consciousness, without feeling anymore. Leaving ordinary bleeding traces somewhere or elsewhere, it doesn?t matter. I have the impression of creating something with a taste of nothingness, something imperfect with a testimonial value that would be born from absence and an abandoned womb.

Time stretches, imperfectly, while my thoughts get frozen. Flashbacks with waterfall effect that come into my mind and darken my whole being. Wickedly. The desire to die, impatient and impertinent, that spreads itself and scans me, motionless. There is no escape, no alternative. Only palliative mechanics, disgust and terror. I?ve learnt to shout my mouth, compress wounds that bleed, and lick the dust, with my tired eye. Tonight, the eclipse in me has no name. Maximal opacity. Out of touch. I’m here for anyone. I quit the game before the clepsydra ends. My explorations of the human soul have returned to nothingness, laying in a notebook : abject, useless and vain. I?ve closed the door and swallowed the key. Go to Hell wanderings, paroxysmal ambivalences and falls in troubled waters. I?m expecting the shadow of dementia to get asleep under my eyelids. Catatonic vertigo. Floating senses. The horizon is freezing, ironically. Tiny deflagrations. The slaughter, my love, has already begun. Look at them lined up, blinded by an artificial sun, nourishing hopes and ephemeral illusions. Imaginary registers tattooed on their necks, licked by carnal, fluid, fragmented and intangible shadows. The phantom of death will walk in their footsteps, sadistically precise, terribly patient, calm, observant, accelerating the movement, and whispering the anemic sentence in their ears. The relentless equation. What?s the point of denying.

Clouded head after a long chemical sleep, she will let him spread her legs. While her hands will start the very first movement, her lips will search the root of his neck to lay a kiss. I love you, she said with her half-closed eyes, describing a nameless perfume. At that moment, he knew that he would die. Not within the minutes or the hours that would come. But tomorrow or so, it will always be soon enough. So they had to fuck, make a gift of flesh. Quickly, very quickly, feeling a sense of emergency in the hollow of their bellies, burn their retinas, mix their fluids like murderers, clash themselves like beasts, between obsession and absurdity. Then make a pause, before appending their signatures at the bottom of the page. The social contract was fulfilled. There would have been the sternum then the edge of the clavicle, the angle of the jaw and finally the hollow of the ear, where her tongue would have whispered tiny intimate or indecent words, step by step, politely or predatorily. There would have been an embarrassed smile at every inch, printing a deep vertigo into their pupils, reinventing a new tectonics, facing the verticality of desire to the flesh of feelings. Tearing the page from an old book, and blowing the end of the history. The corpse of their illusions had to be celebrated, to find a meaning, a direction to their sordid games, then lick a friendly shade to make it pale, focusing on their lustful obsessions and purple extremities, to find the original vertigo. Love writes itself in a cynical obviousness, made of multiple perishable instants, banishing the scents of childhood to the grass that borders cemeteries. Clusters of particles that can?t be negotiated, pulled at random, and embracing shreds of flesh. A bouquet of lilies to celebrate the cold and silent poetry of metallic bodies. Until proven otherwise, a coffin for two has never been shaped.

The beaches of Brittany look the same. They all keep such a soft heat in their bellies, with a taste of salt on the eyelids. They feel boredom, loneliness and the infinite. They don?t care about the passing of time, so do the lost travelers who would spend a few moments at their feet. The opportunity to gather one?s thoughts, lulled by the movement of the tide, setting the distant horizon. Decisions that are made, even the most terrible, in a falsely reassuring and quiet way, leading to crime. I’m a bad girl. Unable to love and take care of my carcass. I would have wanted you to take the time to know me, and be proud of me. I would have wanted so badly your tears and your smiles falling on my soaked in blood and acid writing lines, because I am nothing more than that. A bitter, lonely, proud and selfish ghost who wallows in self-destruction. I would have wanted to be born again within you. Anyway. There is no drama. It is time to rise to the surface. I’ll whisper my little and useless words somewhere else. You know, I have preferred the matter of anonymous books to skin and men sex. I will die soon enough for trying to live too fast. Everyday life crumbles, with a sense of loss in the depths of the viscera. You will forget me like all the others. Everything must disappear.

You know, beyond the confidences, moments of grace that we have experienced, or turns that were made because we had to. All these moments we share are a part of a history whose contours are still blurred, but it?s a living history, a piece of your eternity and a piece of mine that are being built, like a reflecting picture, rereading our old bones, taming the present, teaching ourselves and understanding. Why you, why me, why now. I don?t know. This is not harmless. Criminal perhaps, so what. I do not care. Then we had to relearn the taste of life that floats and panics not to wallow in the dark and anonymous puddles of our old demons, which are always there, waiting in the dark. The disgust that hurts, and the razor blade with its malicious reflection, bleeding in our heads. Trembling hands looking for themselves, with febrile fingertips. A burning breath. A voracious secret, shared in the shade of our desires. Precious stories that do not belong to us. ?We?. I enrich my vocabulary, crystallize an emotion. Finally. Breathing with you after a too long sleep. Taming our doubts and the weight of absence, as a too sticky friend which would constantly remind us the fragility of existence. Listening to our frequencies, our wanderings, skin against skin, without a word. Crushing the original vertigo between our frozen hands the fully enjoying the instant. Becoming a stone, an animal or a plant, phalanxes by phalanxes. Selfish. Passing each other, getting lost, breathlessly, then getting closer, feeling dizzy, glowing, bleeding for a spark, forever engraved on our wounds. A stitch, a staple, an unbuttoned envy. Surrendering oneself, clumsy and laughing, counting our cracks, our molds, and all those little bubbles, full of tears, both powerful and fragile. A presence, so far, so close, so ardent, so loving, that shines and screams in silence sweet words, reassuring words and pale words. Beats that accelerate, murkily and, impatient. A wish, subtle and magnetic. I can hear it now. The opening, at last.

Leave, because i had to. Die a little, in the shadow of myself. Facing the ocean, under the august virtue. An invisible straitjacket is trapping me. I can feel it, all the time. I would like so much to excise all these dark thoughts that invade myself and metastasize my desires. I give up for tonight. And I think of you. You. A presence that comforts me and supports me, despite everything, despite myself. A subtle and delicious momentum that colors most of my actions and thoughts. Images and figures that I dramatize sometimes. Conspiracy of senses. My strength, my weakness, my true and tragic one, I really love you. Hold me I beg you. Make me suffocate with your hugs and kisses. Examine me, I will remember the lesson and the shape of your hands. Then our excitement will lie down in the hollow of our veins, underneath our breaths. Kiss me, kiss me again, hold me stronger please, until the overdose, as if it was the first time, or the last one, it does not matter, I?m sinking, our history is running, no more fears, no more doubts, just a smile and tears to embed this moment in a pact. I calm down. Tomorrow perhaps it will snow. You and me, hanging on the lips of time. Sink or swim, my pain. I’ll never be quiet. Wise, staying wise. What?s the point of living like that. A light wind blowing on my cheeks, my belly starts to spasm, invading my whole being disgustingly. My tired aorta is clotting. Who can understand.

I write to you my silences, my smiles and my tears. You know, ghosts do not speak. Their eyes are huge craters where faceless shadows wash up, those who do not have names and slowly necrose, without a sound, tearing pieces of cold moons and black suns to raise sepulchers and bury their most intimate secrets. A thousand of perfumes, moistened with eternity. Their lips are thin, delicately pale, remaining motionless, even when the words and their murderous moods pierce the epidermis of the winter coat where they were born. What?s the point of feeling joy. We won?t be human anymore Ghosts do not know love. It is a language that exiles them beyond the borders of reality and enchains them in their own depths. A silence that seeks its own material. A silent poetry that stretches itself until it tears up. A dream getting lost and betrayed once told. A caress or a breath, trembling not to die. An enigma. Tonight, I can?t write. I’m just vomiting, with no hope or storm to talk to, a feeling of granite beneath my skin. Just a page to crumple. Forgive me.

A thin belly, a stretching look, a discreet smile sparkled with tears. A frame, a skeleton, a story without any word, that criminally sticks in the hollow of my iliac fossa. A scarlet alcove I draw with my fingertips. Lower, little intimate names and star-spangled secrets are being whispered, like arachnoid desires of you. A fragrance from the abyss between the thighs. I breathe. In the concavity of the abdomen, a mass of nerves and particles that fuck together, according to the movements, intertwined like snakes. Bites. The teeth sink into the flesh. Bleeding. The spirit rises, phosphorescent. You empty yourself within me while I drink you. Excretion of sensations coming back along the fibers, fillong our gaps. You are the one I want, in your organic form. You, and the shadow of the endless night. Dialogue with the dead. I?m talking too much. It is stronger than me.

Milky longings are being lost in the night. I no longer feel, sailing in an empty shell. Empty. Some faces are emerging, others are slowly laying in a fold of my cortex. So slowly that I don?t know how long it has lasted. Telling one?s dead to the others, we make them live. Or, we murder them a little. But who really deserves to know. Who really deserves to know, even underneath a fictional envelope. It?s not a matter of creating desire, but an insidious fear of death, as light as a vapor of ether, tattooed on the skin. How to become both present and unreachable, terribly hermetic, vomiting a kind of silence from the grave. The language of the vault, and the invisible distance that separates the living ones just above the vacuum. Everything is only a reaction to the pain. Suffering is known to be indivisible, irritating, as haunting as a wart, a small supernumerary and jealous mass, located inside the belly. Or an isolated embryo close to the aorta, fleshy and pulsating, with the eyeballs stuck to the viscera. I’d rather be a dead cell, or an in-transit metastasis, choosing an apoptotic perspective rather than a necrotic one, dirty and purulent. Distortion always brings destruction.

I have thousands of ideas of death and destruction running through my veins, with a hint and a taste of acid suicide enlightened by the sadness and the hatred you inspire me. You do not know me. And when you get back, you will ask me what happened in your absence. And I will answer “Nothing. I have died for the second time. And you were not there.” My look is disappearing on the other side of the sphenoid, tired of being hurt. Tired. Another sleepless night that comes along and seeps between my legs. The flesh starts shivering, while the hemoglobin freezes and the breath slowly coagulates. I detach myself, desensitizing me. I?m inoculating myself an antidote. Forgetting fiber after fiber until I feel anything. Someday I simply want to die. By tiredness or boredom. This is not hatred, nor love that I feel. But a foretaste of funeral, which dissolves and evaporates without leaving traces. Yet the death already lives in me. And you resuscitate her, with your lips, your yearning sex, sputtering again and again, in the entanglement of our meats. Licking our necks and lips, with trembling tongues and hands. See our skeletons madly colliding. The night of the hole printed on our pupils. Hole of the night. I’d love so badly to be acephalous and hear the anxiety of emptiness shuddering.

Preserving one?s shadow parts, harvesting one?s difference, one?s indifference, one?s animal side, both impenetrable, odd, imperfect, wild, and scary. An invisible distance. No way out except a small alcove lost in the middle of one?s most secret thoughts. A kind of freedom, both selfish and inherent to its DNA balls, terribly impulsive, irrational, indecent, entropic and chaotic. Yet a constant concern emerges : the fear of losing the other One, from whom one feels so hopelessly attracted to, in a multi-dimensional way. Nothing to gain, everything?s frozen, contractualized, anesthetized. Metamorphosis.

Manual of decomposition. We had to go to the dissecting table. Excessive solarized orifices. The consumption will be sovereign. Making the death dance. Breaking down and licking the ossified emptiness of our carcasses. Nothing flows, nothing exudes. A mass of meats coagulated into their own dirty juice, whose physical and despicable stench inevitably soaks every molecule of air like a viscous and toxic coating. Sometimes gases quietly shake bodies, where bacterial overgrowth multiplies in the heart of the matter. Manual of decomposition. Then above the stomach, the wax mask embedded in the skin. The second skin they all wear at the end. And the obscene silence of offered contemplation, as a call to crime. Nothing flows. I want you in your perishable form, penetrate your being like an insect, and spread into you some of my funeral night. Nothing snaps, everything is torn into pieces, stretching and expanding with huge convulsions. Forget the reality that is only a rude excrement of the mind. We should learn to chew the meat, as we spell a new word, leaving nothing to random, not even the nerves, the cartilages or the bones, then learn to breathe the blood like a fine wine.

Creating a big hole, an obsession nourished by the anguish of loss. The desire to die in the possession of the Other and the abandonment of oneself, but not in pain, or in sadness. We have to remain free, transparent and opaque, casual, sometimes bloody, criminal, merciless. Vulnerable. To be aware of the fragility of the link, its uniqueness and its ambivalence, torn between the contagious fever of passion, and the cold specter of loneliness. In fact we should invent a way to live together, recreating some space, something moving where we could breathe, taming our anxieties. Gathering our wrenches without thinking, to better stitch the nothingness that pukes through our most intimate cracks. Being one, hybridizing breathlessly, then moan, moan, moan, letting us being surprised by the scarlet ecstasy, the vertigo, the madness, and the funeral night that lies beneath our epidermis. Laughing, swallowing our tongues, mistreating our orifices, getting lost, further, harder, until the end. Sucking pleasure with a necrophiliac spirit of survival. Necrophiliac. Then pulling out, still hungry and alienated to this relentless Impossible that never stops tormenting us. But finally. We are nothing. Just an aesthetics of the ephemeral, that plays with itself, deadly and sprawling. Nothing more. Nothing more.

Nothing should be based on exclusiveness, nor the fusion between two beings, because everything falls apart in the end. Nothing should be based on exclusiveness, nor the fusion between two beings, because everything falls into a kind of deaf, blind, and toxic alienation. Only fragments remain, small pieces of chewed skin, some flat teeth, and old carbonized bones that would never please any dog, even hungry. These hints of sadness that come back and overflow unconsciously. The mud in which I walk, walk, and sink into, until asphyxiation. I dedicate myself too much, since human beings are the center of my attention. I should scarify secret formulas right there, under the pad of my fingers, then immunize myself against the perversity of oxytocin. I’m just a disobedient biological machine. A weapon of mass self-destruction, accessorily. I hurt myself, eviscerating me for less. For nothing.

I don?t exist. I breathe, my heart beats, my guts tense up, my muscles tighten, my legs give way, and my teeth, my teeth get worn out for chewing vacuum. I?m dying padded out to a physiology that I do not discharge, except the heterogeneous materials that I conscientiously produce. I’d love so badly to be a body without organs to not have to fill it then purge it, mostly purge it, although I like the sphincter contraction required for the bile acid, feces or the urine. I?d rather do it during coitus. Anyway. I talk too much. My sick bowels have learnt to keep quiet. Containing the hemorrhage of pains and feelings that silently spread, along nerves, muscles, diaphysis, and crack under the weight of boredom. Drunk with death. Coming to an end, forcibly. A nostalgic visceral deflagration for a gram of brain hemoglobin. We must think about everything, including killing time. Sticking a the needle in the edges of the incision, pulling the thread to make hemostasis. Here I even fix corpses. Blind spots multiply in the blanks. The visible world becomes invisible, and vice versa. Nothing dances, nothing makes sense anymore. Only the deadly essence decides. Only forbidden loves count. It?s an arithmetic without unknown to talk to. An open-air laboratory. My head is full of crows.

I?m bleeding to death while my thoughts are introverting. Sometimes a residue remains stuck in my throat, like an opaline coating on my tonsils, impossible to be swallowed. I do not blame you, you know. We do not own each other, even when our fleshes interpenetrate and curl like snakes. Everything is fiction, mask of life, mask of death, eroticism, animal, excretion. And everything can shatter so easily. A blink of an eye, a twinge, the brief asystole, the revealing catalysis and the blade we plunge into the carotid artery. Anatomy of cruelty. Dissection of the so-called “feelings”, I spread the content of my stomach on the table, and pierce a hole in the brain matter. All this skull juice that flows drop by drop. Nudity of the death.