In the end the tax return form is of no importance, childhood always takes us back to the time of the first scrapes, internal struggles, mysterious fears of darkness, of monsters, of the end and that long shadow that chases after us right at our heels. Apart from that, it’s a long path, directionless and psychotropes, phoney over-the-counter medecine. Life is a placebo that is well worth all of its illnesses. So as not to make the most out of the present, together. It doesn’t mean anything, it’s just to hear cries of joy around you. And what if there was no one there?
All you can do is fill up this emptiness, a battle worthy of that word that deserves a block calendar and even a part-time mother. Bit by bit, little by little, piece by piece, you evaluate the situation, make links, consider the pros and the cons. All that counts is the function of the rhythm and the kind of mechanism. There is nothing beautiful, perfect, ideal or idyllic about an indeterminate suicide mission. To make little letters to be read with caution, a contract is still necessary. But life is a gift that you can’t refuse and no one questions such a present. So sell your life dearly, and sell theirs at a discount, buy time behind masks, a deception worthy of this mascarade.
Text : Souklaye - Translation : Sophie IngeLire la suite »