Only In Dreams, In Poetry, In Play

As If You Could Pick In Love, As If It Were Not A Lightning Bolt That Splits Your Bones And Leaves You Staked Out In The Middle Of The Courtyard. (...) You Don't Pick Out The Rain That Soaks You To The Skin When You Come Out Of A Concert.

(memory Is) A Strange Echo, Which Stores Its Replicas According To Some Other Acoustic Than Consciousness Or Expectation.

The Novel Wins By Points, The Short Story By Knockout.

One Of The Many Ways Of Contesting Level-zero, And One Of The Best, Is To Take Photographs, An Activity In Which One Should Start Becoming Adept Very Early In Life, Teach It To Children Since It Requires Discipline, Aesthetic Education, A Good Eye And Steady Fingers.

You're Like A Witness. You're The One Who Goes To The Museum And Looks At The Paintings. I Mean The Paintings Are There And You're In The Museum Too, Near And Far Away At The Same Time. I'm A Painting. Rocamadour Is A Painting. Etienne Is A Painting, This Room Is A Painting. You Think That You're In The Room But You're Not. You're Looking At The Room, You're Not In The Room.