home at last. i press play and lay back on my chair.
a long shiver.

I was just bony hands as cold as a winter pole

outside the night has fallen, and i feel like i’ve seen none of the faint daylight all day long.

Over the ramparts you tossed the scent of your skin and some foreign flowers

i keep in mind that it won’t be long anymore until i’m finally free. i count the days flowing slowly away like the thin notes of a distant guitar flowing inside my warm space.

tied to a brick, sweet as a song, the years have been short but the days were long.

a very short break, like a breath. and it starts again. i keep holding my breath when i walk under the rain. even the rain is pale these days, even when it cowardly stays in the grey hazy skies.

when our kite lines first crossed, we tied them into knots and to finally fly apart we had to cut them off.

i think about a sentence that i’ve read on L’Excentr?e’s comments : « true friends are lonely people who accept each other ».
i’m not sure to know what it means, but i find this definition beautiful. beautiful enough to make me wonder…

Since then it’s been a book you read in reverse so you understand less as the pages turn

meanwhile, i keep having good news, and read every one of the city lights as a sign. a sign of what, i’m not sure. it’s like you arrive on a subway platform just when the subway you have to take arrives, too, and it happens everytime for a few days. no matter what, you’d take it as a sign.

the years have been short but the days go slowly by, two loose kites falling from the sky drawn to the ground and an end to flight.

it ends with the long moan of an electronic organ. my tea is cold by now.
oh well…

a long shiver.
i lay back on my chair, and close my eyes.

and slowly it fades…

my music is calm this morning. another grey, pale day. the building are lost in mists of thin rain, like yesterday, like the day before, like most days for so long that i can’t seem to remember anything else.

over the ramparts you tossed the scent of your skin and some foreign flowers…

i stretch my legs slowly. i have to move.

i’m back in the race

and right then, her concentration was so tangible that i thought i just had to stretch my arm to touch it.

samedi soir, j’ai fait un film entier pour ?tre SURE d’avoir des bonnes photos de ben’s symphonic orchestra, puisque j’?trennais mon G5 et que quand m?me, j’?tais pas l? pour rigoler, il fallait assurer.

?a fait une demi heure que je m’arrache les cheveux.
environ.
d’ici deux minutes, je commence ? me taper la t?te contre un mur.

les photos sont minables. rien n’est piqu?, net, proprement cadr?, un peu comme si j’avais fait les photos avec un jetable aps en cadrant au jug?. bref, en un mot, c’est honteux.

et j’ai honte, d’ailleurs.

j’ai beau me dire que ce sont les photos rat?es qui me permettent de voir et d’appr?cier les r?ussies, la pilule a du mal ? passer quand m?me. une boule dans le ventre. envie de br?ler les n?gatifs, ou non, de placarder des 20×30 sur tous les murs de ma chambre, histoire de bien avoir la pression la prochaine fois que j’appuie sur un d?clencheur.

ironiquement, je pourrais dire que j’ai nettement simplifi? le travail de mon redac chef quant au choix des images, il n’y en a qu’une qui vale ? peu pr?s la corde pour me pendre. et la petite dizaine d’autres n’aurait m?me pas m?rit? que je jette un oeil dessus en temps normal.

et que ceux qui auront le malheur de voir l’h?catombe ne me pourrissent pas ma rage avec des « mais si elles sont bien », aussi sinc?re que ce soit, je ne vous demande pas de me pardonner quelque chose que je ne peux me pardonner ? moi-m?me.

d?sol?e d’?tre aussi dure. je ne devrais jamais avoir confiance en moi.
comme s’il s’agissait seulement d’appuyer sur un foutu bouton !

and although he’s wonderfully witty and funny, there is something deep and tragic in him, something incredibly fascinating.