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La page est blanche. Au loin, une cloche de vie. Rythmée aux pas de génies de rue, elle tape chacun des coups, secondes conforment aux mesures de l’ombre.

A l'intérieur, elle est seule dans sa tête. Soudée à l’esprit de l’uni. Unir, ouvrir et dégarnir. Informelle mais belle, se découvre alors humaine.

Au froid retentissent notes et accoups pour pénombre et décès - du paysage de plomb -  quand, au plus près, pourrissent les parallèles incongrues où s'enlisent solitude et amertume - Antre de songes.

Can't laugh can't smile can't talk can't see can't lie can't eat can't laugh can't smile can't talk can't see can't lie can't eat can't laugh can't smile can't talk can't see can't lie can't eat can't laugh can't smile can't talk can't see can't lie can't eat can't laugh can't smile can't talk can't see can't lie can't eat can't laugh can't smile can't talk cant' see can't lie can't see can't lie can't eat can't laugh can't smile can't talk can't see can't lie can't eat can't laugh can't smile can't talk can't see can't lie can't talk can't breath can't smile can't lie can't breath can't talk can't smile can't see can't talk can't lie can't smile can't lie