An excess of childhood is the germ of a poem.

When the image is new, the world is new.

What is the source of our first suffering? It lies in the fact that we hesitated to speak... It was born in the moment when we accumulated silent things within us.

Our house is our corner of the world.

Dreaming by the river, I dedicated my imagination to water, to clear, green water, the water that makes the meadows green.

The night dreamer cannot articulate a cogito. The night dream is a dream without a dreamer.

The house protects the dreamer, the house allows one to dream in peace