*** Impossible to measure, Impossible to quantify, The silence In which I sit, By which I’m fossilised, Smelling the may bells, Thinking of you Unbuttoning your shirt, Unbuttoning your heart.…
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*** We keep our separate silences, Belgium outside is in clouds, trembles in spasms of rain, the skies leak through my fingers glued to the cold French window, the treetops…
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*** There was nothing left for us but to thank the stars for hearing the keys under these hands, under the hands without music, under the hands without any land…
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*** Sometimes I go to Honfleur, I walk its coble stones and forest roads, there is a lot of French noise: wine clinking, chanson and laughter, and in front of…
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*** The joy of that black night is still alive and pulsing in me. That joy is also to drive me on towards the white nights that I am dreaming…
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*** I didn’t know wether to laugh or cry when I saw a pixel today, extracted carefully from Mona Lisa’s hands, to make them breathe, to make them stand straight…
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For years she had swallowed it up in daily doses - the skin&bones models in little black dresses - she followed the rules, and even accepted to be a good…
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*** My heart hammers so hard when I imagine you walking the streets we walked together, I still don't know how much the gift of freedom and trust can cost…
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She is a catsuit, A catsuit that is thought to be Too vulgar, Too Extravagant, Too food For hungry eyes And mouths Of the judges, Of spectators in fedora hats…
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*** Among these gentlewomen, addicted to late hours, grappa’s and poetry, sometimes neurotic, more often self-confident, wearing men's smoking’s or lovely Scottish kilts, enjoying the routine of being themselves in…
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