sometimes i can be very particular, ou je peux même être particulièrement humain. i am complex and simple at the same time, se contredisant pourtant pas. je me contente de savoir que je ne saurai jamais tout. je suis fan du dictionnaire, mais je ne lui fais pas confiance. right now, je n’ai qu’un but, to live in two worlds, functioning également in two languages. bien que j’y arrive actuellement à peine, i’ve caught a glimpse of that possibility that i keep in my sight où je me fixe les yeux. i like people who make things, j’aime bien les gens qui font ce qu’ils veulent, ceux qui créent des idées, des concepts, qui soient de concret ou non. for the moment, i live in the south of france. i like it here.
a room purposely formed symmetrically, centered from a thick black wire hanging a bulb at distance equal to all six surfaces surrounding. situated in its center, a table of mathematical dimensions, the surface only made visible by the vacillating emittence of the bulb overhead, the filament creaking to a corresponding light. also made visible an array of clouds from cigarette smoke concentrating around its source, a shadow of a figure, the ember at the tip of its lips oscillating its red with that of the filament. seated on the other end is a man in freshly colored black, hands and feet entangled to a chair immobile. through the fog is still apparent the outline of a book. a beautiful book, a large black cover unmarked, heavy. to its right, an electric fan unpowered facing perpendicular. the shadowy figure reaches its arm forward traversing the smoke leaving a void through its path. he pulls back the cover to reveal the first page, the man looks by default. the creak of the filament is accompanied by an electric current, the movement of metal cutting through the air, blowing through the smoke, blurring the lines between it and the void. pages flutter by its force, the man still looks - by default. he looks on at the pages turning, not turning back, nor changing pace. the content reaches its end, the other side of a thick black cover. the filament quiets itself, the fan slows its pace, visually unperceiveable, but the sound makes it apparent. the shadowy figure's cigarette reaches its filter, the light ceases to light - there is nothing. by train of its sound, the man hears air compressed between that cover and the last page, in darkness, yet sees nothing. he rests there, resting, looking at nothing but the impression left by light at the base of his retina, careful not to disturb his orientation, careful to know that what he is looking at is in fact there. sense of touch powerless, it suffices to stare - at nothing - at a nothing he knows it there. his life it rests in the boundaries of a look, the years stacked up like pages of a book.
