In the morning, you tear up the pages of your fever, but every word naturally leads you back to its color, its night.

Only what touches us closely preoccupies us. We prepare in solitude to face it. (The Little Book of Unsuspected Subversion)

The hand opens to the word, opens to distance.

What is not grasped has all the chances to become real.

We do not truly speak except at a distance. There is no word not severed.

Wound me . . . I can only feed on my humiliated blood.

One wound is enough to feed the open wounds of the sky.