Au moins lui il aura dormi.

En général, chez moi, il n'y a pas de nuit blanche exceptionnelle : signifiant que chez moi, une fois EST coutume. Alors, c'est parti pour une super série de nuits de fol...zzZZZ.

Cui-cui par ci, coua-coua par là. Bonjour la nature, bien dormi ?

On se sent quand même mieux pendant l'insomnie, qu'après, dans le courant de la journée, où là, on est sensé rester eveillé ...

Je sais : jus d'orange ! (arôme artificielle, cependant, intitulé "jus d'orange", donc il doit quand même y avoir un soupçon de fruit ... non ? Non ?! Bon ben tant pis).

I can't sleep tonight.

Insomnia.

Everytime I lie on my bed, without even closing my eyes, there's only one face I see : yours. Why.

I reckon it's the one I am the most willing to see, but also the one I don't want to see ever again. Because I have built a castle to you, and I won't let you collapse it.

Tonight, on my bed, I have lived no less than 3 of our impossible reunions. And you always look the same : you have no face. The same name, and the same see-through features.

Once you called me. The other time you knocked on my door. One other time you saw me on stage. Hmm, three impossibly charming events. As a matter of fact, charming because impossible.

Am I trying to reach some balance ? You know : you not thinking about me at all, and me couldn't taking you out of my bloody mind.

Everytime we met, in those awaken dreams, it was like we had no concret bodies, no concret faces, only figures, whispering to each other, caressing their karmas, embracing their dug feelings. So ....

... how would you recognize me anyway ? One hundred years without seeing me ... And twice this time not looking at me ...

I think I'm dumb, or maybe just happy. Yet, I can't be happy with what I have got, or, should I say, with what I haven't got.

You are like this ghost entity. You attract me, however I fear having to be in front of you again.

You are like this stain that won't go away. This permanent mark, right onto the most vulnerable part of my heart, ready to enlight whenever I feel released. You're a burden, and my feelings are its chains.

A stain that won't go away .....

... maybe it's just me who doesn't want to do the laundry ...

Once again, I turned one of your faults into mine ... I am always doing this : protecting this image I have made of you ... This image of a nice guy, helpful, generous, handsome, right, and unalterable. I don't know you, you could be the exact negative.

Who's is toying with whom in our inexistant relationship ?

J'aime me sentir mal, à un point où ça en devient maladif. En pleine neurasthénie. Me sentir à fleur de peau, prête à tout balancer par la fenêtre. Prête à me déchirer la peau, me repasser le cerveau, prête à me réparer le coeur à coup de fourchette. J'aime me sentir mal, mais pourtant, vous ne pouvez pas imaginer à quel point ça fait mal. Non, je ne suis pas masochiste. Mon mal-être est pour moi mon inspiration. Ou du moins, il est sensé l'être, cependant je n'ai pas encore pû y puiser quoique ce soit. Peut-être ce génialissime Morrisson avait-il raison : brûler mes écrits, mes pensées, mes mélodies, brûler mes cahiers, mes feuilles volantes, mes résidus en proses .... Brûler, avant qu'ils ne soient plus consommables. Peut-être que ce sera alors ce même feu qui allumera en moi la fameuse flamme ; celle qui défriche et fertilise. Baby, light my fire. Et si je n'étais tout simplement pas combustible, et si le bois duquel je suis faite était un de ceux qui ne prennent pas feu. Stérile. Froid. Aqueux. Ainsi les larmes qui débordent quand la Terre semble ne pas tourner rond, sont un surplus d'inertie. La vidange de mon corps aqueux, mécanique. Je suis un objet scientifique, dans un environement scientifique, sur une planète scientifique, dans un monde scientifique, pour un Dieu scientifique, vers une mort scientifique.

How many times have I dreamt of you ? This little organised chaos. Those blinding lights ... melt in pigeon's shit.

The incarnation of noise ... but a noise that, however loud, caresses you, and hold you till peace.

The city of contradictions ...

I'm coming to you. I am gonna get you. You can run ... I'll catch you.

I'm looking forward to getting lost in your hips, falling down on your feet, and sliding onto your greasy skin. I know that if I got hurt by you, that'll be a savage revelation. I am meant to be your slave, I am meant to be persecuted by you.

What if I can't reach you ... Will you be mad at me ?

I'll try my best, but sometimes, life is one of those tricky characters : it encourages you to raise your wishes, and meanwhile, it erases your hopes right in front of you.

My hopes are not high, for I know I'm gonna be disappointed.

My hopes are you, because I know that anyway, I am gonna get hurt by you. Your hand, your soul, your self.

"You look 100% better when I don't see you".

Your blinding lights might be strong enough to get me fully blind ... then you would look fine. I wouldn't see your weaknesses, and I would guess your charms ... I would make you. I would draw you on the back of my eyes. I would see you through the inside. And with some luck, you would do the same to me.

Paris, believe me when I say I love you. But believe me also when I say I can't stand you.

You like us adoring you, as much as you like us resenting you. There's obviously something missing in your love. A touch of motion.

Yes, contradictions.

You move but you are still.

You shout but you are silent.

You hurt as a healing.

You laugh but you are sad.

You touch but you can't feel.

You hate and you are loved.

Paris, I am coming. No matter how long it takes. However, if I can't come to you, I hope you'll come to me.