Decisive moment: the one when you will be really alone. And it is perhaps this that makes her hesitate: not the void, but the vastness of the solitude. It's as well if you are frightened of solitude. It's a sign that you have come to the moment of your birth.

Love is when you suddenly wake up as a cannibal, and not just any old cannibal, or else wake up destined for devourment.

She alone dares and wishes to know from within, where she, the outcast, has never ceased to hear the resonance of fore language. She lets the other language speak - the language of 1,000 tongues which knows neither enclosure nor death. To life she refuses nothing. Her language does not contain, it carries; it does not hold back; it makes possible.

Perhaps what I do not manage to operate rapidly enough is the passage between the outside and the inside.

Me too, I make do, I anoint what cannot be fixed.

What happens: events interiors, snatch them from the cradle, from the source. I want to watch watching arrive. I want to watch arrivances. I want to find the root of needing to eat. And taste it: work of sweat / sleep.

Explore the idea of what the language that women speak would really be like if no one were there to correct them.