Our bodies are like time bombs. Constantly busy dreaming. Then weapons and hearts explode.

Nothingness gains ground. Beauty is dark. And there is always rebirth after the apocalypse. Calibrated by marks and symbols. Secret words are exchanged. 
At first it’s a game. Discoverer, Derail. If someone steps on it, it explodes. It starts like that. You have to let go to survive. Like a field of access to the dream.

The dynamics and drama of this story stop at a precarious balance that leaves the rest of the action in suspense. So let’s play with words. A free art. A narrative that has an impact on realities. Presented as a great form of freedom. But in the end, it is still and always a fiction. Historically, this has always been problematic. The choice between emersion and immersion is not yet made. The ultimate result therefore. Run the risk, to no longer mean anything.

The ember presented itself as a flash. A kind of fight between elementary and brutal forces. Inaudible, Immutable, Initiated, Inertial. Death only reminds us of his presence. Then there are more angelic things, but no less squeaky. The winter of love.

How can we think of these mutations of unknown origin? Like the essential conditions for the development of mysticism!  How to believe the intelligence of the body? Choose your animality, transform yourself. This simple principle of thesis and antithesis. A kind of worship of rejoicing. Something that correlates space. Like dreams built and buried by men.
Like an inner passage. Like hell. Where you stay to see and look.

What was the point of all that love? 
Maybe it was the best thing we had.

~

The reality of his dream. Episodic, bloodless.
It is in the depths indeed, where the sensuality leads, that all began.
What do you see? Infinity simply. Then a bliss opens up, a lack of being.

This is more than a memory, it is mysteriously present. Did anarchy works better at the heart of a gigantic complexity? One must know how to strip the history of redundancies that clutter it, in order to rediscover the primitive form that illuminates the true symbolic thought.
This place is inhabited. A sanctuary of the absolute.
This story cannot be portrayed in any way. Symbolic language. An exchange of views. Composition. Tourbillon. Like the place where the places are evoked. I don’t know if you can die in a dream.

Rational altitudes and accident from the ground. It is by saying this gap that he hopes to join. Put an end to this eternal conflict.

The bond no longer has a body but does it still have meaning? They twist it in all directions - as improbable as they are unpredictable.
The sequence of events, however opaque it may seem, is also part of this movement. Fluctuating - Spawning - Amorphous - Inflaming. A phase of reversals that implies the weariness of «fantasy». Neither cry nor crime.
It leaves with imprecision. The inalterability of the movement that stubbornly blows towards the horizon of expectation. Then the memorial responsibility. Stealth drama becomes reference.
The feeling is intelligent from the start. It is reassigned to the real.
Violent and sublimated urges. Delights of chaos? He waits for the rest. The silence of thought. Search my face.
A sensual dimension. Their embodied imaginaries are wildfires, which eventually will become dangerous. Loss of the real, hypnotic influence, collective hallucination, private delirium. Vibration and fragmentation. Violence is in stillness, in summons. An immediate hermeneutic refusal, containing a promise.
And intuition often, by the way, always - obscure.

~

Never more than a show without thickness and duration.
Moreover, mirages, there are some in "the constellation of the may be"
It’s very simple. I observe it. Ecstatic pleasure.
The binding character of the being there, in the discovery of a sense that enlightens and transfigures. The empire of the visible for the silence of thought. Something interesting happens in the correspondence in this look. The sign before the rider of an uncertain future. The body designates the time of shortcuts as that of illusions. The real is the pre-objective.
It manifests itself in the brutality of the idea-limit.

A spectral presence. Something circular.
I look at this person’s actions as clues, so I don’t talk to anybody. The promises of zero. It will work itself out. It is memory in oblivion, it is tiredness after disaster. Something resists, though. Image is all that matters.
My obsession. I feel the approach of a plague. An Impression neither icy nor burning. The road seemed long but the sky was clear. The sad alternative then. I don’t know the rest. Why do we oscillate between magic and skepticism?
Analogy. When we cut ourselves off from our environment and we can enter another world has two. Arrogance of happiness?

The essence of the finite-infinite relationship is time. When there is no more time, what do we do? What is the continuation of the program?
This something floating in the air, this diffuse fragrance that interferes. Idle and slow time begins to accelerate and lose all orientation. There is a certain amount of concern about it. It’s the impossibility of projection or representation.

Sensory isolation chamber. Resurrection.
I forgot the end.

~

Go, go, use your extra-sensory perception.
In fact, we must proceed by elimination.
When two rattlesnakes fight they follow very strict rules. It’s so disturbing, lyrical. The opposition between giving and receiving opened up to the space of interaction. The magic of things. Not mastered by me.
Body and gestural communication played their parts.
It is him who gave the first impulse. A general purpose. A power that allows him, in contemplation and touch, to pass from latency to visible influence. The art of omission
The viewer uses his ideas and the expectations of his imagination but inevitably confronts something he does not understand. A problem then arises: the absence of a logical correlation.
I am not just this spot being who keeps on pretending. Floating in full sun on the waves, in a glittering ambiguity. Prey to their emotions. In front of his attempts.

This evolution is in turn symptomatic of a crisis. The high tension of the body contributed remarkably. Not physical and escaping contemplation. Excluding chance. This symbol of only a secondary truth, that of a distant world. The disturbance, the annihilation, the shock, the fictional and the surreal.
Depression is a good thing sometimes. In order to force him to consolidate himself, self-consolidation which can by itself allow him to emerge successfully from such a test.

The impression of fragile movements caused by the winds. What are these strange marks?
A kind of tension: although sensitive and subordinate, this ability is at the same time destined to be indispensable.
His reflection on the world oscillates between these two poles. Misfortune and future.

Sometimes I think I’m gonna scream
The time has come- is at the end of the world.

~

That’s the last thing I remember clearly.
No one knows anyone.

It awaits my answer. It is a long distance call so there are a lot of parasites. Everything seemed to accelerate, time also passed faster. The negation by the surreal. The sigh of relief.

This is an invitation. After all, it’s only the evening of the end of the world. The theatre of cruelty presents typical situations, interactions and conflicts.
A wide and complex range of emotions. It is born by violence and dies by freedom. I hit. No answer. I wait, hit harder. It happens abruptly. We’re lost. I stand there cursing myself.
An object shone in the glow of a candle in darkness. I wondered where to go. On the edge of darkness. I am cut in half, but it may not be a bad thing. Poverty and lack of opportunity should normally have kept them away. Where panic rises, when confusion sets in. The threat of the informed, of the unlimited, of the inhuman. We know that it will end badly. We are in danger.

We said nothing. Neither he nor I. A potential disappearance? The inevitable part of the living.
The story is disturbed in its mode of appearance. The past is very present. It conceals moments of unexpected beauty.
But then! Defeat or be destroyed? Clearly, the way is open for a revolution. The desperate invocation of a power of enchantment. But it’s not me anymore. I don’t know anything about the people I loved.
This projection surface to a « me » in pain of feelings. In its paradoxical structure, it becomes worrisome, even frankly destabilizing. Then it merges in silence, nothing replaces it.

Overcome all this? The viewer can meet his own self, which does not cease to reappear before plunging back into the folds of indifference. The eyes are almost constantly active, a feverish activity.

Very weak but stoic. We must content ourselves with being together. Proclaim the desire to live without memory.
The horizon, suddenly open, must be tamed. Pass the new illegibility. New loves, new crimes.

~

The atomic age, then.
Already I feel little by little that I change. And then a chiasmus of glances at the same time perspiring and hypnotic.
Each of you will experience to be as the only one to be seen by him. As a theory of crystallization.
Like an empty frame. A kind of solitary adventure. I’m going to start almost blooming and then get rid of it.

The eye is like a wound. The borders of the living are porous, acting slowly from the possible. The combination of two components in tension. It is the manifestation of what must be concretized.
From here there is no point who does not see you. You have to change your life. Even dislocated, all the morphs are linked to a whole.
The same desperate background. So it sprays the notions of stability. Truly virtuoso. And maybe from a cliff to the sea, a remnant of me.
States of arousal that are repeated under the constant pressure of an internal or external danger. Never in the service of contemplation but of a nervous impulse. To resort to it is to refuse the disarray, if not the intrinsic fear.

Rich in merits, but still poetically,
Man lives on earth.