Anonymity of the amateur host
Behind the computers, the lyrics look absolute. What a beautiful anonymity not to face oneself!
meanders
Behind the computers, the lyrics look absolute. What a beautiful anonymity not to face oneself!
Why is it that when I walk into a theater, do I want to leave? Why when I randomly open a book, do I look forward to closing it?
I make my soil fertile and exhaust my need to write, which is like a surplus of seed. Every day I unload a full bucket of it into these pages.
Ici vous pénétrez dans l'envers du site, à travers les méandres de l'esprit artistique qui y préside. Ni ergonomie, ni cohérence ; juste une poésie prospère.
Ghost, I live here. We live here. Here, the Self-image is the basis of everything. The basis of everything in our social world. It is the foundation.
My great adaptability is an absolute violence to me. I hate any relationship that forces me to do so. Rare is the one that goes the way I want it to.
Artists, the real ones who would have something to say, hate the world and won't say anything to it, right? And it's much better that way, isn't it?
Violence and harshness are in the air. "Fond d'âme mental", a poetic text written on November 1, 2015, before the terror came.
When you're shocked by anything that exists, it's because you've made up your mind about the world but you don't know anything about it.
One morning, or rather one night, a new blog was born in my little family of sites, a messed-up blog, designed to collect spelling mistakes with a ladle.