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"I was six when to That I saw everything was God, and my hair Stood up, and all that, "Teddy said." It was on a Sunday, I remember. My Sister Was Only a very tiny child Then, And She Was drinking her milk, and all of a sudden I saw That She Was God and the milk WAS God. I mean, all she WAS doing WAS Into God pouring God, if you know what i mean. "

JD Salinger. Teddy . In Nine Stories.

You look like a foot public turn a blind eye to multiply sound and touch. Outside of the music and then hear the girl sitting in the chair next to whisper in the ear of the mother, "Mom, then ... "In the end all that God is truth or not? "

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doubt you are (again) Dervish

De Baran left a mark and above all that rain. Latif looks to leave with peace in the face of a friend for nothing. Do not know who said pain. Maybe also pain, but above all peace. Love for nothing, although no free love, and I turn to you, in your own words, know what to apply. I wonder if both do it absorbs me, kissing hands , look at a whirling dervishes, have eyes like insects. And maybe I absorbed and what actually happens is that I lay back. Maybe what I thought the straight face watching quiet Latif Baran leave is just another one of those loops in the air that lead to nothing, is nothing but a false sense of perfect geometry (and I now address you with this) on the ground pretending to pedestrian crossings. I mean that one believes in this linearity learned in a place that is not it, believe in straight lines always open forward and one day, just because it rains or the snow level is two hundred meters or because "I borsch was fire had done to Horacio ", or as opening the closet breakfast discover that you forgot to buy coffee, or because the bathroom and mirrors that will not feel dirty but everything smells of disinfectant, you realize absolute stillness of everything is a point on the ground, one thing still does not move forward, that maybe does not mean that free love grow, that maybe there is no linearity to the peace gesture Latif, war and peace but at the same time that each statement contains its opposite, everything is multiplied in opposite directions as in the roots of verbs triliteral Arabs. Songs hear for sad Women knowing that music gave me just to give me a title, to say "someone wrote music for you and I have found." I doubt. I think everything is the fault of the nights, and days I go back, back, involution.

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"Elle a perdu des hommes

mais là elle perd l'amour."

of Orly. Jacques Brel

you smoked tonight listening to Nick Drake. I know because I've been smoking. I looked at the desert playground and focuses monstrous track and off. I've watched a lot of white geometry of the zebra crossings and the drawing done from above the sides of the street. I have a hole, that "open sore, cut the word, as you said. Tes yeux à 10 cm des miens coupent la parole qui me . If you were here now I would say that I remember everything, even the day he told me what that cut eye. You say as you always say you have to be heavy, painful, remembering everything, not being able to forget. And then keep quiet for a while staring at the ceiling and I promise to quit tomorrow. I do not understand what it is promised today marching for good men are still on earth, what time will do if I receive the letters you wrote without light in a azerty keyboard to say "J'arrive.", That I understand you were coming. And it seemed then that would be provided and Majaz ringing and the light would never change, which would follow the yellow reflected in the glass screen of the eighth while reflecting everything that was not ours, outside the balcony, the city from above. The city with no river, no water, no bridges. O with river and bridges, but other than that we met. And then it was not true that Majaz would always sound and that the wine is not going to drag on forever, or that the room was red ocher softer your sheets on the mattress from the floor. Since then I am living a mile loop. But there are miles to dream. There are others, many kilometers without grace or meaning. Thirty-five kilometers north, five in the west and east then five and thirty-five to the south. So alive since then. I look like your eyes (and I'm your eyes) the vegetation that hugged you, you played with a pale hand to say "Ça n'existe pas chez moi." And in the words "chez moi" is a warmth, a recognized field, a territory half. In your mouth "chez moi" became something of mine, I imagine yours too, but mostly mine. I could not tell you what I think, as do those miles. No I can not explain because I think without words, and because the firm was last promise to never promise anything. The promise of the platform twenty-nine and the door closing and I think what it would be silent, never say no: "We will, we are going." Although you saw, maybe read it in my face that I saw him go without you and why you giraste and raised his arm and ran back. I do not know but I think a lot during all those miles and wonder what prevents me from them all to the north, place an X on the map right where it says "chez moi" and start driving slowly tonight, today, starting now to get you. But then I realize that is certainty, for once the certainty of right and wrong and against the certainty that we can do nothing. So I walk again kilometers bottomless spirals without X at hand, the miles do not lead to any site, as much to think with all that intensity for an hour and a half per day so far has been "chez moi."

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I can not explain it to begin to explain it and leaving a bit of understanding, of being inside, so close. Stop and sit down, do word, ink, and become the wrong side. Although I suppose it's inevitable, by the false hope (and you know that fake, so do not understand follow) that will last a little longer, to fix, to leave quietly. Watching him dance, turn, turn, knowing he is at an infinite fair you do not know, maybe that almost nobody knows. Knowing he is there and that is not there. Watching him dance and forget the body, and remember just because there is something hot that you burn on the cheek and lower you to his lips and feel the taste of salt as if it were the first taste of the earth. It is impossible to explain. Explaining it is almost a lie, deny the beauty of the rite. But how to keep within the target of folding clothes in the air, almost starting the flight. How is it possible to have seen and felt the salt, the music heard in the pores, and get to bed until you have tried before to make even last a little, do not forget the peace of the dance, you knew clearly that the side of their eyes, sometimes getting confused with yours.

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" And I still remember thinking how lovely it Could Be
to hold you for an eternity

or at least Until you fall asleep."
I still remember. MPH

It is as if we had been near or far within, as if we, almost, have touched him with any portion of the epidermis, as if he had made the day really calm, faith, and we understood the words that named the mystics. Just sit with your legs hanging over the black river. Only enough to walk inside a church and a touch of hands. We liked to go to the coffee station where there was only the sordid and strange people in the stations. People with plastic bags or dirty shirt and untied shoelaces. Ladies, instead of the lips are painted the outline of the mouth of a vivid crimson. And well enough for us. We made do with that and we walked like no one has walked before. We thought those days that was the biggest secret of the Earth. We thought we finally understand everything. "Nous sommes tous morts." And that was enough. Spinning slowly to something that is heated in a fire. Watching the smoke getting out of their mouths. Very late breakfast in my pajamas. Skip hours at the office. Get your jersey so many sizes too big. Wait for them. See them coming. Love home. Live in the house. Look at her care home. Start a garden and fruit without washing it to his mouth. Feel in the mouth feel of the earth. The taste of the earth. Understand everything. The silence you have understood everything. Disability, these days, of the word. And I do not understand how it is that everything is now a place untouched. A place you can never go back now. How to be only a few minutes queue to get on a plane and six in the morning. And remember now with a sore passing stranger the minute accurate in the past. Do not stop time calculations to a future round. Say: Now if it were yesterday, just yesterday at this hour, would be in the attic with his legs hanging over the Sambre vacuum. Think: A week ago we were in a movie theater crying in front of Chaplin. And so on. Touring all backwards, from right here back, knowing that it is an insane trip, painful, a remedy ephemeral, finite, sooner or later will have to stop.

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"Now that the dreams Have Given All They Had to lend
I want to know do I stay or do I go"
Nico. The Fairest of the Seasons.

I'm going to make good men are still on earth. I'm leaving because we have heard too many times Cat Power saying "I will miss your heart so tender ". I'm leaving, leaving the house, the river, bridges, Magritte's mother and get the first bike at traffic lights. Leaving the Place d'Armes, rue du Pont, Novo Coffee in Brussels. Visits. No more have you on terraces across Europe and look to bring a muffin cup hot tea. You've come, you're gone, you know my spaces. Gradually not stop raining and emptied the city bit by bit. Not to rain. I left you at the airport and has since been raining forever. Rain in cinemas, on the Sambre, in the mouths of the metro. I shelter in the music of the shops. It rains a lot and we are always wet and talk less. So I decided go. It is incredible that it has decided to leave. I have to go. But I'm going to make good men are still on earth, so that Nico does not sound like last night and never in the room, to love from afar "this love forever."

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The concert begins a little later than four. Wondering chemistry that makes up light. This gives accurate beam right in the center of the H Annelies Yamaha piano. She smiles. Wondering what makes up the chemical stuff that is made of mouth that smiles Annelies. Jessica on the other side. We need look for a short time to see how the strings tremble on the tender flesh of his hands. They covered the windows with a black curtain. But that does not stop light. The exact beam passes through the only place in the window that has not met anyone, that someone has been forgotten. That portion of solar you perceive as coming from a universe that no one has seen yet. Jessica is nervous and does not know that in less than two hours will come to ask you to go out with you in a photo because "you look so happy." This is the first time someone said you seem happy about, you seem happy, and the three sat, glass in hand and arms and mouth the memory of the salt. Jessica does not know that maybe you are so clean, almost pure, for a few hours ago the North Sea, because you have purged some cold water on the North Sea. Something that nobody has said but the three that I know and beats in silence and quiet now breathed in through the cold water of that sea. Jessica is the only all around the room she realizes that and does not know how to name and saying: "You look so happy." And it's true. Ask Him to let you see the picture and it is true. Without euphoria you smile, you smile at the memory of the sand and salt. You smile and think the tour needs to make this evening the light to finish in the center of the H Annelies Yamaha piano.