Where does it snow now? In my. On the screen of the eyes. Or if! Nooh. ? Neither the words nor the body go by itself. Nor the loneliness of feelings. They don't go to one or two; except for the plural; where they slip on the importance. The affections. But is it in? For you the afternoon falls with its compromised loneliness. For you and for your cries. For you and for their cries of loneliness. From beyond ears. The first five minutes. The first five minutes of your bed. Or have I read it? Or have I read it in a vacuum? And I think it's experience. And I believe. As the tree believes in chlorophyll.

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