This is a very special page. Don’t miss the pale blue words. Translate. Meditate.
The Moldy Imagination of Vieux Patate
The days without Vieux Patate have gone down the drain. I forgot all about them.
The Old Potato crossed the worlds, then the white light transformed him
Wherever you smell, it smells rancid. Something is rotten in the state of Earth.
Why do I feel the tyrannical urge to rehash the past excesses of Vieux Patate?
He left the city, he left this world too, he left without leaving any address, he never had.
Everything you said about me is false, shameful and could not be heavier. I’m hallucinating.
Potato Hot, yo, like a French fries stall. Hot as embers, the blessed beggar.