He carried, Ritro, his eyes, between his hair, on the flat part of his skull

 He carried, Ritro, his eyes, between his hair, on the flat part of his skull. In the room of whispers. Rolling they go out. Slowly the wine. We both stood silent in the center of the silence. Outside, the old wooden door revealed its medium-sized squares of glass damaged by the habit of dust. With the mouth in the form of an agenda ready to go out at any time. He was dazzled by the blind gaze. As if his shoes were always part of his feet.

Autobiographies. Write en miroir. Palimpseste sur painting. Mirror Sub-Irrealism. Random intratextuality.