Night, silence and darkness, causing in me a desire to become comforted, before any loss, before any mourning. Books on my table, unopened, and through the window I can see the early winter snow. The dark mass of trees against this strange whiteness. It's the end of November.
I don't wait for anything, I don't wait for anyone and maybe that is the true formula for waiting - Nothing - Nobody.
I read a few lines by Rimbaud
"Les branches et la pluie se jettent à la croisée de la bibilothèque. Je me souviens de sa chambre de pourpre, à vitres de papier jaune: et ses livres, cachés, qui avaient trempé dans l'océan!"
I don't wait for anything, I don't wait for anyone and maybe that is the true formula for waiting - Nothing - Nobody.
I read a few lines by Rimbaud
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