Car ++Ö++ et parce que LumiËre

“mon corps est une histoire extraordinaire”
-- ++O++


It was never the reflective surfaces, broken, reduced to their integral parts, a sandy beach where the sun on water only wished to blind. It was never that harsh.

Automatic muse, dream machine whose rotations light to shadow to light were in sympathetic rhythm to the appearances of her image. Light to shadow to light.

It was never the ornaments, never the red drapes thrown in convulsive airs, never the sanguineous cello. It was never that harsh.

Dancing in surrealistic rain, imaginary rain, rain of the parched and barren desert shores, sandy beach where the sun on water only wished to blind. Dusty sidewalks where old women spray water and sweep away forgotten emotions.

It was never the unintended contrasts, never the search for contorted angles to expose ever more ecstatic meditations, never the forest fire hair across the blank distances. It was never that harsh.

It was the written word, without shame, without obscurity. It was the stone niche of the statuesque, the garden trellis umbrellas, ever reaching, ever turning, ever illuminating the pale skin in the extraordinary present.