The hidden and secret desire, the expectation revealed in a reflected delusion, a sweet fruit to savour/relish time elapsing. One eye opened and the other inside, looking within. With this eye looking at where it comes from and who understands nothing. When you are having a squint about yourself, it gets worse till the point it becomes a carcinoma, until you disappear, withered, bony, lifeless.

A soulless pilgrim, dangling hands, feet digging dust and ashes. Everywhere, all around, just tree trunks instead of green crowns, a giant fire ripping the black sky. Thousands of aligned fireballs roaring to become small bright spots in the infinity of the night. Ash-Grey hill where giants have been consuming since day one. They are as proud as the law, where there is chaos there is method.

I walk between them as they are sufficiently spaced out for me to walk without becoming a human torch, and even if the heat is suffocating, I go on. Flames suspended in a sky without stars. Where do you want me to go?
I will fly high and then lower my head to discover nothing but reassuring stars.
Or do you want me to go? To fly away butterfly, caterpillar with wings ? My eye within will look outside, at last they will be two, managing to flap their wings. I'll then fly away, open the window of this lost house and she will be mine.

The object of a human form, you always take it with you, we are bringing each other around, just remembering the unknown, time bends : moist handkerchief and gets put aside. There are black letters on it that overlap. There are stories in it, not for a long time because the fire gets closer, it crackles and will be here soon. Then the black ink will become blue smoke and will rise up as high as it takes to dissolve, disappear.

Bodies rising into the sky, torn to the ground, bodies that rise and swirl. They climb in the great blue day and they are afraid, they are screaming. And those who remain on the ground do not understand either and look at them with wide eyes, gaping mouths, unable to move. And even the hands that grip whatever they can, end up slipping through, letting go. On the ground their scream reach us and every chin is turned to the sky. And then suddenly there seem to be an hesitation up there, everything seems to freeze, suspended satellites. This lasts a moment and suddenly they fall, clumsy puppets crashing to the ground in the middle of the crowd.
A little further on they saw nothing but I have seen everything, I have not lost anything, not an image. I saw them fly away these helium men, I heard them screaming and I listened to the cry of death.

I saw horror. I saw the secrets magnified under the microscope, small demons from within becoming the hard skin of quarrelsome dragons. I saw the thin shadows walking with a mechanical and lifeless pace on dry roads. I saw women selling their bodies, transparent eyes, impenetrable. I saw the remains, houses without roofs, gutted buildings, and at night the city plunged into darkness waiting for the next day as if it would never come. Day night, gemini city. And you I've searched in vain, my sweet home, Chanel laziness, my wool shell in the lemonade sea, it would be enough for me to find you so you are mine. It would suffice to find a needle in a haystack, is this therefore what holds happiness? To find what we can’t see.

On the gentle slopes that fall into the river, there are lovers kissing on a bed of flowers, their legs intertwined and their feet near water. This stream is wild crystal sliding on itself. A few meters from the shore, at the top of the hill, the shrubs-bouquets confining space by location. The sky is blue and the water is a mirror. I walk in between the lovers who do not seem to see me .Only their mouths are looking at each other’s and their fingers get lost in each other's hair. I would scream they would not hear me. I could cut trees, set fire to the green grass, blow hard for calm water to rise in a storm, paint the sky with blood and only I would be transported into the horror, as their Siamese figures are frozen chrysalis only belonging to an instant of time. To them there are no consequences. That is why I cannot stop, that is why their infinite wisdom is inacessible to me.
I walk in the light leaving images of happiness behind me.




A body, a being. Standing in its verticality, all in exclamation.
Above the being self the bended being is looking at himself like a question mark
Two fragile beings that pure fact of being made is revealed. In the reflection of melancholy they often find themselves in a firework of soap bubbles, in an elusive present. Principle of my future, I am an assessment constantly swept by a new constancy, till the night’s mess that dissolves me into infinity.
The end of the accomplished, this is where I spend all my nights.
This is where I look at the boat leaving, still a little while on the boardwalk, a still a little bit of the thousand faces outside of mine, of these perspectives painted by hand, these eagle views where the globe twists. Here, the night is still dawn.

Now I close my eyes as they were already wobbling under my closed eyelids. The inside of the inside, the eye-mirror and ? sleep. Everything gets replaced, suddenly the boat is a whale and the sea is the sky. This is no longer the eyes that see, the fingers that touch, the world wavered. He/ There is another sensitive operating in the abyss. Sing butterflies, sing in the streets waving, tightrope walkers, sing evaporating with your twins eyes that make no noise, sing again tonight litany of senses.
For it is here that I want to be, at closest to that self that I cannot know.

Here I possess nothing more, nothing more but my self which, plunged into the eclipse can finally be itself and exceed my being.
The loop is a loop whose knot is undone with every new sun.
And every new sun wants to return my flesh to me, and this desire that wishes the other way'round.
Owning it to be dispossessed of oneself to become the identifiable object.
The desire of the object is the lack of self.
And above the ego we discover our selves.
Here I possess nothing more, nothing more but the sleeping sun dipping into my being eclipse the outside, composing a phenomenon.

Wandering disheveled in sleepiness. Simply wandering through oneself.
Every night is a poem, an abstract and perfect composition of which I am the involuntary artist.
Creating unintentionally, creating unknowingly, I become the idol, the creature and destiny.
The dreamer is the hypostasis of the creator on standby since everything started asleep.
I am the first, in the beginning there is no memory and I am the last, at the end there is no more memory.
And now there is no more breakage.
And now there are only things that stand each other and that begin by themselves.

But there are absences with which we never come back, boats that do not return to the port and which are ghosts or legends.
I am not from your world and I marvel you as much as I scare you.
You were worried at the very moment you saw me and I came to know it by the way you turned around me like hesitant flies.
I miss bits of myself whenever I walk with you, so today I would like to walk alone.
Places are evading, moments are amplifying, and here are the dreams already.
Every night is an endless path, a face to face with my loneliness in another present, in which my existence shivers with all its ephemeral nuance.

I'm in a prosperous city, paved with large stones. Everywhere blissful smiles stop a little towards me while I am crossing them. They have done business and seem so happy that they hide a little bit of death deep in their pockets. Their smile is the stick worn to the belt by the warden when he rings the bell.
In front of each shop, in front of each house they are there, waiting for something that will not come since they will disappear behind me. You are evaporating at the same time I am passing by. All still, they are looking in straight lines with their eyes moving very quickly by themselves with happy smile.
I walk up the street, which eventually narrows, becoming a path. And the sky opens to an even bigger sky, on an even wider dark road.
My dream takes off this human swamp.
In the distance ahead of me a house made of the shadow on the way.

The night offers petals to curl over the flower, I will make it my nocturnal house, watching the stars twinkle by its unique window pointed to the sky, and I will contemplate my kingdom rotating around the polar. And when the day comes, I will take the elevator that goes down into its stem and I will sink down into the heart of the earth, eyes sewn by worms and stones in my hands, with a burning fire, prisoner in my veins.
But isn't it that way that you live here? At the open and at the eyes of all?
I am telling you, you are living in reverse way, you need to open up, down and across, and enhance your inside, outside, as you peel the fruit to reveal the heart.

I carry with myself the chaos, Suspended in the abyss, I need creating, no more innovating.
I carry with me the experience. I dissolve in the world while bringing myself into my self.
I carry with me every thing. From multiple to convertible unit.
And when they come together, the objects disappear.
And while disappearing we are transcending species.


I do not start a dream,
I'm suddenly dreaming,
I do not start writing,
I'm suddenly writing,
I do not start to live,
I'm suddenly living,
Every beginning is the lack of myself.
Unidentifiable, the beginning is paradoxically identification.
This between two states, that point that always deeper into the infinity of the center.
As if from nothing seemed to matter, as if from death appeared life and from ignorance arose the truth.
Begining is to be and not be, begining is to disappear to appear.
In fact I am in a room which combines simultaneously the darkest night and the brightest day. What should I see? What do I see?
Butterflies without wings crawling on the fruit with eyes like hoops ,
Straight lines that zigzagged into infinity,
Cold flames around them projecting a black light,.
Here in the morning is always the evening.

It is outside of me that I am myself,
And just as I became I'm already over.
And outside binds us, to each other, to objects,
It is this external that decides our being,
Who rightly pushes us to start being
I am what occurs outside and inside
This becoming that never becomes,
The present absence, the absent presence,
Breathing days, breath the centuries and millions of years,
There will be no more wind, there will be no more earth,
You'll still contemplate your rainbow scales,
Wonderful dragon with the fish tail and the human head,
That is below me you have found me,
It is beyond you that I will carry you.


- César Valentine -
Translated from french into english by Sara Attico