One remembers too many things, too many metamorphoses, too many major waitings.

The disorder of the world seems to be for certain a true need; For others, to refuse the obsolescence of the times, represents a true desire.

Low register with acute, quickly with slow, sourness with soft, fort with weak, contrary to the ones and in spite of the others, I never doubted the very small way that we traced with the intrepid constancy of our laughter, of our tears.

One remembers too much too many things...

to many metamorphoses...

too many major waitings of this forever disappeared ultimate desire...

I never doubted the inexhaustible significance of the gray.

 

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