In the heart of the fable, the experiment is moving, the natural sleeps, the nightmare is solemn.

In a scented bed, a so soft wandering perfume to breathe relieves me... it's absurd.

Incomprehensibly, I breathe, I thorough the moment. Invariably, I follow this twilight tendency which singularly animates the extent of the prospect, independently of the experiments of ends and beginnings.

In the heart of the fable, our illusions converge towards the plain one.