Even in our eagerness to live we find ourselves with our dirtiest miseries. by do. for you For between that with the lustful eagerness we live. And so we never wonder what it is to live beyond the sacred body. With me it satisfies me. No body meaning. Without intention. He made me laugh at himself when his own I, indignant, told him so. You tell me exaggerated that I never forget: well, the more I forget, the more I remember. Although it hurts me with the effort. The more I try, the less I forget. For example: your strength. Your spacious living. You tell me: ─I don't know. ─I tell you everything that follows. And it's not a compliment. The more you have, the more you are worth. "Value" impossible. I was going to say, as always, hands that escape; but they can be looked at, with their eyes looked at; or he was going to say as always, words; but it can be the following. I was going towards you. When he came and went and fled and returned, without rancor and without fault, without reproaches, although cries of injustice suffered. This is how love escapes. So you are absent. Thus there is no one who understands it in its flow. In his surprised state. It is assumed that he himself is unknown. That does not make use of itself. In his own intoxication with himself he gets drunk, he forgets, he lacks his essence, or so it seems.

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