The Photographer, Like An Acrobat, Must Defy

…the Book Creates Meaning, The Meaning Creates Life.

Language Is A Skin: I Rub My Language Against The Other. It Is As If I Had Words Instead Of Fingers, Or Fingers At The Tip Of My Words. My Language Trembles With Desire.

Henceforth I Would Have To Cosent To Combine Two Voices: The Voice Of Banality (to Say What Everyone Sees And Knows) And The Voice Of Singularity (to Replenish Such Banality With All The élan Of An Emotion Which Belonged Only To Myself).

To Whom Could I Put This Question (with Any Hope Of An Answer)? Does Being Able To Live Without Someone You Loved Mean You Loved Her Less Than You Thought...?

The Author Enters Into His Own Death, Writing Begins.