The Bed Must Be A Beautiful Place,

Through Love, Through Friendship, A Heart Lives More Than One Life.

I Wanted To Remember In Order To Be Able To Return.

She Had Lost Herself Somewhere Along The Frontier Between Her Inventions, Her Stories, Her Fantasies And Her True Self. The Boundaries Had Become Effaced, The Tracks Lost, She Had Walked Into Pure Chaos, And Not A Chaos Which Carried Her Like The Galloping Of Romantic Riders In Operas And Legends, But Which Suddenly Revealed The Stage Props: A Papier-mâché Horse.

To Write Is To Descend, To Excavate, To Go Underground.

I’m Restless. Things Are Calling Me Away. My Hair Is Being Pulled By The Stars Again.