Their occupations at capela: dark beginnings and crystalline cubes stampedes and decimation. Since the SALT to Iran. Aberrations and martyrdoms. From the Black Sea to Ulster all these peacemakers, full of love and faith, they will live longer, even after their death. And Solzhenitsyn in all of this? Florence or the overdose of beauty. Sierra Leone or the lack of everything. Ficus, the Iris of gold and wine, the one who gave his blood into wine. The ammonite selfportrait of strata and classes superimposed on a chair: container absolute and authentic. And the Egyptian past, do not lie to them, they know what is a civilization. But nothing can get us back in 1789, and maybe there is nothing left of it... The bay of a crippled and muddy world where where overturned long ago the boat of angels who wanted to defy the prohibition of the barbarians and return the whales back in the water. And chipping the ballet of banalities, the angels sit in bands on a bench. Banished from their ice floe, they blaspheme not, however, they contemplate the baroque world of basalt lowland. They chat later with a juggler who returns from the land of murdered Buddhas and tells the bazookas, profits, rams, bombs, the executioners, the need, concrete, omitting no downside to his bibliography of embers. They stand now, like Borges, where the paths diverge: Byzance or beryl. To choose is to be brave, without a compass nor barometer is to break the time of brutal binary by stuttering «bubble». Happiness may be a bacterial tingling, a stupid aspiration, improbable, without basis that we find in Beckett. It’s hard to get back, these days there is still the tears of yesterday and the blood of even before; who does not know where to dry, who does not know how to cease. These endless stream who do not know where to get lost, who forgot until suffering, who have forgotten ... to be true. Yet at the heart of the ruins there is still beauty, secular and millennial and these values​​: thin, abstract, posed and calm. Who are still, as a reflection of ourselves on a day when we still knew ourselves. And all these phrases that you leave an aftertaste of eternity... Have you seen the hope? Where did it go? In the shadow a daguerreotype distances itself from of his diptych. He has doubts about his duties as a deity. It drifts with the delicacy of a dancer along the durations and disasters. He despairs, and depreciates at the bottom: difference difficult, he asked to discover. And since you blink nervously and you sleep less than before, you say it is the common lot, you say it is not the end. It’s just a firedamp explosion, a twist of fate or of the Holy Trinity, whatever. And the world which looks at you is an unlimited misunderstanding where the awacs monitor all the wild oats of April which could restore hope like memory at All Saints Day which carries all Venetian palaces and Inca gods, in the great reign of Nitrogen. Damn, here these nonsense files come back. They resurface yet we have very well made them flee by precipitating them to the bottom of the cliffs. It would have been necessary, perhaps, to throw them into burning forests or locked them up in a fatality well finished such as the Flemish painters creations. We thought to have finished with all these fakes, these false of forgers... By we, I mean the manufacturers of fado, the son and daughters of flamboyant flamenco, fantasy high-wire walkers. Everyone you will have to silence down with fury and frenzy if you want to close anything that serves as window on the world and fantasy : these two extras farandoles starving and tired of spinning the wire of the net spooky ghosts. Gulls away, ice, frost freezes the hairless hearts of a globe left wasted without template nor earnings. Gorbachev, Gagarine, Gershwin, Garcia Lorca, Gandhi, as safeguards, big scribblers of mankind, of generous and generative genesis. They are gestures, graphics, guitars strumming where we are gradually growing, where it makes upward mobility of gravel, guides for a time lying on our knees in an infernal buzzing; imploring the era of giga-bites to stop gargling with guignolesques wars and manage goiters gangrenous they could not erase. After searching thoroughly its chemical library and contemplate the reprographies acids of Warhol, he turned to Uttar Pradesh. Othello, the nightingale of Japan or the decorative placoderm of Shakespeare, vizier upset. And Chinese art became a duelist restricted, a watchtower with skate. In Faulkland, Daumier was gone, he had long since abdicated, he was convinced that man will stay a chimpanzee and would never take contact with his hobbies. Contradictions and blind spots: these wars and these lies, these nations and these homelands. Toltstoï in Mexico or those barons murdered: these revolts which exchange which travel almost as fast as light and creates a culture. And if there was a Richter scale of revolutions, How would it work? Often I think of those chat