In this soft madness while morning rises, unrevealed dreams remain surrounding my recently awaken mind. I feel like other countries and I feel the warmth of beloved hands I held for an undefined while. I’ve been to Istanbul with my eyes, to Paris with my skin; I’ve been to Lhasa with my thought and with my sins to New Orleans. Now I’ve gotten up from my magic-carpet-first-class-airplane-pillow and I brush my hair looking at the mirror while posting mental smooth inaccurate pictures on the spice draw in my kitchen.
The moustache full of good advices of my grandfather spreads memories and tears and smiles and deep doubts about life and friends. I watch people write delicately a sweet note for me. A travel invitation, a little gossip, a little flower. Funny pearls or salty candies. Fragments of a calm old-known solitude.
I brush my hair and I look at me doing it in the mirror and I feel like foreign poetry and family womb. My inner keeps me safe and still while I’m out for a good day.
Jasmin dans la tisane et gateaux au carrot.
Philosofie et la petite chat Sophie.
Une télé caché
et toute la felicité que la vie rendre dans un jour de congé.
