Cervical Disease And Dizziness

"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."