In the mirror, I saw my double. He told me sadly: Oh Xavier, what has become of you? He faded away like a tear. Shame on me for telling you a hundred times: I taught you so many things! Forgetting who you are, I took away so many things from you ! Thank you! Thank you for what you give me.
From near or far, whether you think of me or not, whether you send good vibes to me or let porcupine quills squirt, you teach me what these forty years have given you that I miss. Yes.
You were born forty years after me, and yet you are not forty years younger, but forty turns older. Faced with the evidence of life, arithmetic is futile. The sharpest intellect misses out on true wisdom, which comes from Earth.
With each revolution it makes around its star, our planet stores new powers. Each revolution invigorates and rejuvenates it. At each birth, one feeds his subtle body with these brand new powers. They are the property of the new incarnations that they connect.
When you were born, the earth had forty more towers than when I was born. You have a tapestry of powers that I can only dream of. Little by little, I draw inspiration from it and I evolve. But I never join you.
I teach you only knowledge, you teach me to be in the world. My so-called wisdom, you would find it in books, but no: you prefer life. You know how a soul must enter the fire of the star before incarnating on a planet.
All stars communicate with each other through wormholes. Shortcuts in space-time. Moving from star to star is instant. The mother ship that brought life to earth, Hyperborea, behaves like a star and like a planet. We can go through Hyp to win any star. We can incarnate on Hyp as on any planet.
Books are dead with my generation. People don’t give a damn, they look at the images to get inside them, they see that they have nothing to say, close the book again and slide it into a box of books. Where someone will take it to slide it further, disappointed with the journey. Or the non-travel.
We move differently now. I don’t know how to do that.
No, no don’t let me play the fool
My accomplices, my dear friends, my models who are just suffering me and making me suffer as a martyr. JCD & JCF, eternally absent still there, you blow me dead words that fall with a crash in an ear distracted. A dizzying journey before the final oblivion. These outdated words, ideas that no longer have any meaning. You died at the right moment, my two quitters. I loved you so much. I still love you too much, no doubt. My last present is you.
Bad weather for flies, as Sartre would have said. This JP makes me feel sick. Jean-Sol Pâtre, shepherd of dead souls. Stolen from Gogol.
Leaving Russia in 1836, Gogol took with him in his thin bag, besides some clothes, the manuscript of the Dead Souls, which will become his masterpiece. (source)
Nicolas Mongolito:in French slang, gogol and mongolito means dumb crazy name for a crazy man.
Towers on the wall of incomprehension that separates the ages. Forty towers erected on the walls of time. I can see them from afar, these towers without battlements, without watchmen, without flags. These towers with no history that I don’t know. These fragile towers: these earth towers. The glass walls. The glass slipper at the princess’s foot, at the foot of the tower where the dragon is watching.
“Some dragons look dead when in fact they are in a state of deep meditation”
This world is fake: a playground, a lab, a test. It serves only those who…
The following spring, tiny swallows come out of the nest, chirping and insatiable.
It was enough to open a small wooden door to leave the city without traveling.
There are four rocks in your path, four enemies to overcome. Fight them to the…
Get drunk and stay that way. On what? On wine, poetry, virtue, whatever. But get…
150 million years ago, ▲ created Woman. She and ▲ were reptilians covered with scales.