Ce qui reste
Desire to write: impossibility of saying. Maybe writing is always born of failure? I look for words, I find only traces. Scribbles. Leftovers. Carcasses of meanings. Formless, shapeless, deformed symbols: fragments of a lover’s discourse.
Maybe stuttering is the only way to tell the unspeakable.
Stuttering symbols on the sidewalks of the gray city, as on an infinite carpet under the feet of all. Nightmares of papier mâché ... It is only by giving - or rather by finding form to this disaster that I manage to get rid of my worries... Objects. Paper macerated by rain. Newspapers. Disfigured posters. Plastic orphan, bags of presents. Sometimes small ribbons of colored fabric, like flowers or undecipherable ideograms. Secret language. Blundering. Delicacy. Whispers. Screams suffocated (or exploded). I find all this, under my somnambulist steps. As I travel through the city, I feel as if I were going through ragged stories: interrupted treads, fragments of past joys, desolation islands, crevices of memory, mazes of anguish, paths of nostalgia...