The other night,
I dream, or almost,
and a text,
comes to my closed eyes.
Tag: Writer-in-Progress
Springs have passed, by the dozens, but I don’t notice them anymore. Last night, she jumps around to reach the balcony as we hear the rain crackling the panels.
Original mon or.
De près, de loin, de nuit, de jour, original mon or à l’esprit, obsession introspective, maladie invisible. Horizon gris nuage, petits succès de parcours imperceptibles, I am on a race of a kind, a race of my own.