I’m not able to invent complicated lines. The Ego graft on the pen has an handicap stronger than will. Maybe I pretend to resemble myself; maybe simplicity is an old family friend.

I’m a little more alone without my dreams and this display without graffitoes doesn’t reflect my sadness. I must invent again a dream-play and dip in it to believe to be able to fill with words the Cahos that doesn’t need them, the heart playing, happy, only with time. But I’m only able to make…

You arise red this evening over roofs and chimneys so big to fill my eyes and hold an old man’s stick toll trudjing where my photo film ends.

I pretend not to be back on my steps and don’t switch off the alarm clock on my sleep to catapult myself in the dream and not in the reality. But I find myself like a ghost.

I listen the breathe of the deserted houses to the shrilling of voices in the time. Elderly people cry at the stroke of the cuckoo-clock.

Life today leave me in peace; I don’t want you to shake me, let me swing between my thoughts lianas, empty-like, for once empty-like, for not dying by siege.

A stormy den canalized the sky wet wrath. I caught and drank savouring the storm taste. All here the light gush firing tramp sleeps. The soul of houses is subjected to the filiform half-light bounced by useless motes. I am silent

I wake up in your sleep and I observe you dreaming my sea your sea, between the sun clefts filtered through my eyelashes, through your eyelashes, on my corner on you everlasting poetry.