It is on a day like this one, a little later, a little earlier, that you discover without surprise that you don't know how to live. 

And that you never will know. 

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Something has broken, you no longer feel, something which until then fortified you. 

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The feeling of your existence, the impression of belonging to or being in the world, is starting to slip away from you. Your past, your present, your future merge into one. 

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You are the wave that ebbs and flows from place to place. The dead hours, empty passages, the fleeting and poignant desire to hear no more, to see no more, to remain silent and motionless.

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Crazy dreams of solitude.

An amnesiac wondering through the land of the blind, wide empty streets, cold lights, faces without mouths that you would look at without seeing. 

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It's as if another thread has always been running, ever present but always held at bay. 

And which is now wearving the familiar fabric of your existence, the bare backdrop of your abandoned life, veiled images of this revealed truth, of this resignation so long deffered. 

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To want nothing.

Just to wait until there is nothing left to way for.

To wander, to sleep.

To let yourself be carried along by the crowds and the streets, to be without desire, resentment or revolt. 

In the course of time your life will be there in front of you. 

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A life without motion, without crisis, without disorder. 

Day after day, season after season, something is going to start which will be without end. 

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Here, you learn how to last. At times, you are the master of time itself The master of the world. A watchful spider at the hub of your web. 

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Your breathing is astonishingly regular.

As the hours, the days, the weeks and seasons slip by.

You detach yourself from everything, you discover, with what almost resembles exhiliration, that you are free. 

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That nothing is weighing you down, nothing pleases or displeases you. Life exempt from wear and tear and no thrill in it other than these moments. 

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Fascinating, occasianlly swollen by new emotions. You live in a parenthesis, in a vacuum of promise, and you expect nothing. 

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You are invisible, limpid, transparent.

You no longer exist.

Across the passing hours, the succession of days, the procession of the seasons, the flow of time you survive, without joy and without sadness, without a future and without a past. Just so, simply, self evidently like a drop of water on a drinking tap. 

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In the course of time your coldness becomes awesome.

Your eyes have lost the last vestige of their sparkle. Your silhouette now slumps perfectly. Serenity without bitterness plays at the corners of your mouth. 

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You slip through the streets, untouchable, protected by the wear and tear by your clothing, by the neutrality of your gait.

Now your movements are simply aquired gestures.

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You utter only words which are strictly necessary. 

You do not ask your way, you wander around, you walk, all moments are equivalent, all spaces are alike. 

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You are never in a hurry, never lost. 

You are not sleepy

You are not hungry

You let yourself go, you allow yourself to be carried along

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All it takes is for the crows to go down the champs elysee.

All it takes is for you to turn off suddenly down a grey street.

Or else a light or an absence of light, a noise or an absence of noise.

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