Prelude:        To write is all that he really could like. The writing always gave him a second chance, another and then another. The writing held him without word and sought the perfect front, true and beautiful. He missed it. It knew it. It thundered itself. Thus, the writing pointed out sound to him. Imperfection is contagious: Chapter one.        It inclined, dismounted and took with humility because it knew that such as is accepted was passion of eternity and infinity, a tough entity. It was afraid which the heir is not - not proud of him, then it ate into the language.        It tracked airtight words with the reason and ideas, with dogmas and philosophies, the cultures and ideologies. It tracked words which did not answer back with passions and emotions when one, two of them, do not - does not - know, he discovers them, rapture of the conscious state.        Far from logorrhea, it carefully sifted the words, inspired it, self-directed as he said it. Truths concise, the race that he liked, perfect such as previously defined. To cherish, necessary to give pleasure, to feel in life when one carries some thoughts, to calm the desire.        The words torment. The oscillation enters the impression evanescent and buried passion is frequent weaning amplifies the absent ones, the antithesis. He really been the host of other thoughts, others than those announced, accepted but never believed to be able to claim to remain nor leave, or able to suffer what was not to him, is not, will not be ultimately ever selected.        This damn nuisance wrote words, which emulate the readers, emulate their authors. They do not express but they return to the pleasures waited, delicious, melee but refused and defended. He breathed without a pipe, his nose in chevaliers to inhale the scents. That it is sad and it must only cry for him its dead. The damn nuisance is dead.        It did not disavow its sorrows, it did not break its bottles, it did not tear its sheets and glass did not meet its open veins. It did not hide its threshold and we make his mourning today. Goodbye friend, tomorrow you will emulate nevermore. Chapter two: Definition. You find your head a little empty, me too.        Me? I am nothing. I am neither an entity, unbounded nor a reference mark. I am unrolled. My lifecycle is a circle, not a broken line.        One can see me as a film - the caress of a sheet on screen to my fingers on the keyboard, the odor of ink on ruffled paper or by the printer, the devious one. Pour me these straight lines, without identity.        There is no past nor future and even less present. Of my birth to the death and much further still before and afterwards, I am, I was and I will be the cosmos; a grain of salt, sand of the universe.        Shall I hit the stars? The dreams flow high. I swell, channeled my eyes, current to the sky and drink to what the sky has lost. I remembered I used to feel tough, immobile. I will not laugh this time. Do I actually have reasons to laugh (at)? Will it make me smarter? It does matter. I did it to make my pleasure and unwind the remainder.        The remainder will continue to miss them and we will continue with to wish them. They do not have to think of this, us to them and others let us think. Chapter three: Imagination. Who am I? How am I? I am the reeve. (You were yourself.)        The second when I write an eternity, time flees. He is not any more, my friend. He died, left, flew away. I cannot make any more difference between me and humanity nor between unit and the universality. My head is filled with a vacuum. Am I the whole or nothing, much already or something, the white or black? I am.        Yin and Yang, I am the fold which separates the medium. Black and white sides with neither. I am a line without color. I am the eyes of the blind man, the ear of the deaf person. I am nothing useful; a body without heart, a heart torn apart. I am.        I am this sentence, words one only can contact. I like to be what I am what I will be never. I like to be the mimic of the constant, a song without debut, nor ending. The infinite one God did not create.        Does it need to be affirmed? No it is all, it is already much, in fact, and it is all.        It is without anything and it is all. It is me. I am it. We all are it. And it is when one believes in the others that one is aware that he exists, that we all exist. I cannot write any more now. All is finished. I know and you know you? What a soft illusion, data-processing communication. Chapter Four: Conclusion.        Song without note, the rhythm without rhymes still rains my words. Blight follows the conceptual and its summits until I hold to nothing. Pay attention.        From these times when the communication is recognized in a time when the communication idolized, at one time when the dead poets slowly die. There remains only plot, falsification. Desolation, obsession and there my feather pen which cries. Distances extinct memories of beheads and queens.        If life is an obligation and only death becomes a solution, if the words do not reach any more, your head or your cure. If you are synonymous with misfortune, then let the rain blow in your hair. Let it write to you and let it compose for you.        If the cure one evening dictates verse to you, do not cease any more script and you will remember only the dark. If your body becomes sensitive to all these things it composes. It is that finally you will become a performer.        The sovereign virtual world destroyed your prose, voracious and proud. Arrival to the era; the text and its treatment is the keyboard and screen. If the wind by chance caught in your hair, do not turn over. Leave it. If the music is born one day from your fingers, continue to play, do not stop you. index.html