The sky twists, and my eyes follow the race of lightnings, envious of these swift travelers of nocturnal wanderings. How I would love to throw myself among them, the heart over the shoulder, laughing at the face of this colossus named Distance. From cold to burning, from the bloody shedding to the deepest contempt, a few overwhelms me as much as a whole indifferent me : Fate is a drunk tightrope walker with a clumsy step, fueling our expectations or devouring these last ones. I hope for nothing ; sure I lie drawing out those words, because dreams slowly come back and of their blade I want us to be the sheath, gaping and eager mouth of shadows with a insatiable appetite, alternately worms, then chrysalises, to end like Sons, sitting to the left of the Devil. Linked forever, designers of our own and impenetrable world.
