I Pass Times, I Pass Silences, Formless

The Startling Reality Of Things Is My Discovery Every Single Day.

To Live Strikes Me As A Metaphysical Mistake Of Matter, A Dereliction Of Inaction.

I Am The Suburb Of A Non-existent Town, The Prolix Commentary On A Book Never Written. I Am Nobody, Nobody. I Am A Character In A Novel Which Remains To Be Written, And I Float, Aerial, Scattered Without Ever Having Been, Among The Dreams Of A Creature Who Did Not Know How To Finish Me Off.

To Narrate Is To Create, For Living Is Just Being Lived.

I Enjoy Wording. Words For Me Are Tangible Bodies, Visible Sirens, Incarnate Sensualities.