The Word beats time. So that was it. To write was to love you, off center or in the center, centered in your eyes, a powerful treasure. Write to love yourself, suffer the unspeakable exhumed, to travel in the breathlessness of the words animated by you. Speed ​​of words and oozing of lines galloping at the refrain of your night legs which open in the interstices, in the cracks of the Word which unravel and intermingle at the discreet rhythm produced by the abundance at your hips. Abundantly, from all the prayers plunged into your hands pressed by the Work, rushes to live, alarmed between the heart and reason, - O you that no freedom decreases, you who believe without a cross! And I came, instinctively and unconsciously furiously excited by this dance disturbed by echoes in lucidity. Wiggle your darkness with my eyes and hug the dizzying rhythm of the book being made against me. But tell me, my pretty one, my indecency, how many books have we ever seen a woman born? - O what a marvelous joy to abandon me in the early days of your birth! And I would like this book never to end. I want infinite infinities to continue until you expire having written it ... Each time a little thicker, a little heavier, filling and overflowing with each piece of intense life and that you never, never, give up the adventure of being you.


© Birdy'