tomb
Single images / Multiple images / Sober images / Dirty images / I dream of audible images on vast, taut skins that would resonate with their senses
I'm building my tomb, my isolation, my kingdom, my sewer. I'm equipping my fragile Nautilus from the inside to bandage like a kid on the face of the world.
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.
The true individual venturing out of his isolation room, faints on contact with the air. He refuses to be legibly embodied in his words and deeds...
Time veils backwards, throws a theatrical tulle over the detailed vision of ancient crimes. The tragic beauty of history is more congenial than the impending horror.
Artists die like so many other endangered species. Their territories are restricted, their voices are discreetly silenced.
Suzanne's dead. We watched over Suzanne's body in the cold and darkness of the room of the "reanimation" service of the Oncopole of Toulouse.
Making one's existence more "important" to oneself by just a few milliliters of an outrageously dissolved solution of self-knowledge.
It is human and tribal to have to be constantly reassured about one's membership in a community and the relative state of one's loneliness
Even if it is dangerous to understand it literally, the Amok is nevertheless a phenomenon on which the being in search of itself must lean
