Slamming windows, tozen windows slamming, and as I am trying to close everything, other ones appear or open brutaly, ...what's that?? Seems like I am all messed up, trying to breathe... Is that me?? The storm raging, my belongings drowning, what keeps me alive? I know, it means that I don't belong, neither to me, neither to anything. This is the new life, just mirrors, only questions. Where is the spirit, god help me... It's just a boat, and the sea never ends, that's the only thing I can be sure of. Lost a dream there, now it's an island that nobody ever visits, or really? I look back: must reinvent again, or must create something new: choose.

Milk

Love you, drown me, must not see the end of it, neither the stream (feel it, don't...). Fruit Island, where I sleep, Eden where I find virgin-me. Lying, watching the fruits falling slow motion... nice, felt on my head so softly. Now I will bite one of it, will be so soft that I will die of this new feeling. Now I am having visions, white visions. Mostly milk. Milk people. The milk people try to talk but only greasy pearls flowing out delicately on the extrimities of their mouths. Their breathe makes bubbles. Now I climb a pear tree, sit on a branch and sing melodies. At anytime I want, I can just let myself fall in the milk bubbling broth.

Western eldorado

Invented myself a western eldorado, with square horses with sad eyes, mad gold searchers with ugly mouths, mechanic pianos playing itselves all day long, shady faces appearing behind windows, a crazy grandma, some dirty vicious babysitter with a criminal background... a ghost city with something in the air but with humans with nothing inside. A gloomy music, everything perfectly detuned. The place where natural elements make everything suspect, but where nobody cannot do anything that we know. There are people playing some kind of roles, but nobody really exist, and they don't know. They're like ghosts, everything is happening outside them. They only have an abstract feeling of desolation and death, but most of the time it doesn't come to life, never.

(Soon coming: the story of the plastification.)