Labyrinthe des miracles l'âme habillée en corps sur le paillasson de la conscience sur l'ombre des lignes écrites devient un funambule en équilibre sur la fragilité des phonèmes nous faisant instantanément atteindre le nom des présences dans le récit éphémère nous disant comme vérité du dernier mot silencieux sous le récit du monde sous la peau inexistante la consistance inexistante se tord comme un arbre du silence évacué du savoir divin dont le contenu doit être évacué sauf danger de damnation éternelle dit le savoir absolu au silence rester dans les idées de chacun car si l'autre se réduit à deux dès le début c'est un maximum tout bon à toute origine

 They built the walls with the eyes of the dead. In his augusts. In their barely. The horizon awaited. That drive away the characters. Go up and down the horizon. In all the months of the eye. From a sitting of the look. When it went up, it was promise. In a warm air. A wave was coming. The folds of the trip. Daring end of last summer. We were in the delay of his journey. In his concentrate to roam. In your thoughtful time of leaving. In his visual exit time. In the colors of its light. They pushed the colors of space. To the blue of the clouds. In the distraction of the clouds. And the arrival of the sea. of the good sea Good shepherd of the sailors. Of their boats-shepherds-anchors. Sea: divine Good Shepherd. Of their wayward travellers.

 You came back from my mouth as we ran down a flat idea to our detriment on our undeniable fingers. Silent drying. Take it out for soaking. He became similar to silence, to its signs of silence, to the face of silence. Silence lyrics. Great everyday bread. Construction of silence. of its expiration. The due date of your payment in installments. Payment in installments of the stone of silence. Like the labyrinth of silence. Of all the long silences. In his drowsiness. In your morning. The mornings of silence. The well-known promises of silence.

 United nests of blood. They lose days. They take branches. volatile. Like any road. They take their flight. Dry. Corrupted night flight. To disappear To leave scars. His tattoos. Of the new day that closes. Nests close mouths. Close words. Hide sun. Falls off. In outer space, it floats. Drawn by the dark. Hidden black nests. Transparent to light.

 Get lost in the desert of time. It is easier to live without doubt. The mirrors of time. The version of his passing. His enduring immortality. We only want to catch a part. An hour. A sedated punctuality. Asleep at the mark of an hour. In the time line. According to the hours. To your best part. The absences of emptiness. I love you left floating in space. It shrinks to surround him.

 They burn. The transparencies. Your tibias. Yesterday. Away from the fire. Soon. Sea memories. Exist. Like a there. It was. It was thought. They took. They were diluted. Your arms. In sand of you were. That truth is sought. Where the past falls. For that, farewell sheet. It opens in real time. where we went Al Then. Simulated. In desperation to love.

 Hyphae. aggregated vesicles. They form monasteries. paired flagella. From the core the pores. thin secretions. Of sheets of water. Surrounding streaming fossils. Dissolving light between spores. Neither the words nor the body responded. No control of self-perception. Words poked out of their nostrils like two word-phagocytizing mice. Or of distorted phonemes. Thrown into the randomness of the air. In both ears, storms like hurricanes. That is why some lived in the ears; so as not to be phagocytosed.

 I do not know any more. No more lies. Of their violet tongues. They call null. Tongues stuck on themselves. Writhing in their knots. Drying saliva under the temperature of friction. Big Love. Your mind is read. Not herself in that impossibility. Not the usual identity. Al I have. Al we have. We forgive each other. Inside skin. There strangers. in our reading. In our Scripture of ourselves. Like ghost hunters. With tingling as a sign of life. Slow subterranean devouring insect snake.

 You know we don't know just thought. Yes we were. Why? Without knowing you leave me unconscious of myself. To not go anywhere restoration. You leave me without free will. Without rhyme or reason. No love in the guts. No tongue wood. Dumb under the shock of the fertile imagination, it ruins lives. From surprises around corners, around suspicion, in the corner of the night, to the anguish of the orange patio, to the sustained silence of the long journey, to continuous despair, and more and more, a continuum without waiting, that time folded into its own dimension, time that from time to time opens up letting some of its untranslatable pieces escape.

 What is it like step I have you. Like simultaneity. Of tears, as an image. They take to the shadows. Of the memory among others. What will we do without them? Without our shadows. Without the doubts of the shadows. Downcast shadows. Dejected screams. of hopelessness As an invention. The dimension of the heart of nights loved as sane. Orphaned sane. In the morning. From the dimension bus. Parallel lines that the city runs through. Itinerant. On the inhabited asphalt. They fall each day into the flatness of the night.

 We were trapped in our own temple of beauty. An enhanced fear. I think you've been banging yourselves into fucking reality for a while now. Waiting for putrefaction within the body of the soul, individual and collective. The exit of the steps where there is no exit. Spider tunnel. Of spider time. Sea spider wave. Its liquid air passages. Of sea nests. Of hands lost in shipwrecks. They float, they go balancing on the possibility of soaking their sinking. Shipwrecked hands floating.

 In that centered life that opens. In the gaze of being seen. In some time fall. We were uninhabited. Solar words. From the Sol Olvido bar, as the singer to whom I attribute it would say. Your forgetfulness “will not pass”, as the street banners say. Who perhaps remember us when we went hand in hand. As promised and said. For that Oblivion that no one inhabits. In that unknown somewhere. Remind me of the limits of what you say. Where the limits are heard. As part of the shadow structure. Where the music of blindness vibrates. It vibrates like the bodies of social spiders.

 The fly garden. In the jar of oblivion. And hare of the wind remained like a synthetic mannequin hanging from an invisible fishing line for images. In his fixed immobility he did not look for the mobile hole through which to escape. Image reducer. Thinking mirror reducer. There would be a reducer that was then hung on the doors of the houses. Those who did not find his image upon arrival could not enter because they had no limits to manage in space. He spoke from the voice belonging to the body asking about his image. His absent image did not respond. The walls and the consistency of objects were dissolved. Break out onto its panting surface. That of the present objects. He fell into the heap of himself.

And the sex of love. It has no feet; only bed. As the cold reproduces. Like loneliness alone, sullen, misanthropic, himself a stranger, surly, elusive, withdrawn, surly, elusive, sullen, unsociable, hirsute, unpalatable, detached, furious misanthrope. From the window, loneliness. Out of tune and alone. From the evidence, solar ladder; he was sunbathing alone under the narrow stairwell; skylight dirty with bird droppings. Hours bent knees there spent. I was looking at the light. He lowered his eyes. His lips chewed. Indefinite words not exposed between the thin lips of the dictionaries. Sharp lip blades with thin sharp paper-reinforced blades. White evidence through the skylight entered shouting its definite certainties: «Gaz this. Say this or that, or this other; but never say, because it is not said, because I say it.» Yoyo only has to repeat to be understood thanks to the iterative repetition of the communication with enough thanks so that it does not seem so to the fabulous ears of the informed.

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

You shall not eat of the fruit of the Tree of Death. Of that under which the tomb of the corpse was planted whose essence rises through the wide roots. Like against the sides of a void that leaves the absence of life in space. To his ecstatic modesty. Thick slow dress. The modesty of dry slime does not come. The calcareous dissolved shell spiral dries. Whose life was like that, like a massacre. As if you could escape from those storms of massacres. Whose temporality is broader than time itself.

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

Looking for photos in the watery clouds. If it fills the nonsense with absurdity, it invades the boredom of endless hours. He made a costume out of the leftovers from other people's masks. He wore it with the fierce pride of authenticity. Like where to find sleep in the desert. At that point and apart from the sand. Summit of empty space. Where the wind disappears. And the wounds. Pierced in the skin. Labyrinths of pain. From sand storms to mirages.

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

In the cultivation of consciousness. To the introspection of others. Hanging the mask from a hanger. That is why this ordinary trip can be a real hell. Dozens at a time sound especially today, as other times they sleep, sounds moan, from the system, beeps, grinders, fluorescent wails pinch space, cutting crackle, with buzzing lights, and still still fish and rotten meat, moldy charcuterie , vomit, ammonia on a sheet, fluorescent room, pulsations in the eyes, the distortion bounces, the images bounce with glare, the terrified windows flee with strong shakes dislodge building a material tunnel in space, multi multi multiple, the jumble of bodies of disturbed objects,...

Autobiographies. Write en miroir. Palimpseste on painting. Mirror surrealism. Random intratextuality.

The will of the movement of that which freezes it. There is the proof that the mouth was not a mouth. But fierce. This month at least, or what's left. With that of the passing of the mirrors. That's what they said at least. With their glass tongues. With his broken swear words or his chances. In search of lost souls because their bodies fell. With a crash Noisy. Crystal crystalline. With their dark souls. To create forced opposition. They trod the mirrors with bare feet, their own crunchy debris. Steps upon steps with cracked feet. They find they do not find the traces they have not yet left. Due to lack of steps or shoes or useless desire to walk.

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

It is like being immobile within the unit. Distort the silence. Of the energy, knowledge and imagination of the body. How to live against aerial gravitation. Clumsiness of the vertical flight in its takeoff of breath. Indifferent to the line of the ground, or earth, support already forgotten by the feet. The journey of the self. The most true. More markings on her substantial waist. Whose faults due to repeated flight. There is no physiological testimony left in documents. Well, it's too picturesque to carry history around your waist. Like all flying creatures with aerostatic elasticity. Those multiple trips. They take height until the traveling mass words lose. From then on, unnecessary to continue the agile flight, the wings fall like spring leaves, lightening the complacent glide.

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

The noise was quiet. To go unnoticed to the movement. Of the imaginary relations of the mirror glances. From the poison crystal. Body waiting. Strange love of the walls. From the lip bones. Among those who retains tenderness. Memory long ago. From which we do not escape symmetrical. Not enough words. Toxic towns. We are hollow.

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