Time passes again, but I forget that notion. It has become as superfluous as that space, that make the effort to syntax, that thinking about tomorrow. I usually fall asleep, feel increasingly tired. I vegetate. At times, pain pass through me, brighter than stabbing, or throbbing headache never ceasing the doors of exhaustion. These pains are more frequent, they are born under my wounds, débondent down my spine. But ultimately, I'm more afraid that I did wrong. I'd like to see the day, remember the real sky, a leaden sky before the storm, another sky that this ceiling ersatz blue skies and white walls that weep. forget my old body, I do not want to remember if Marion Deshayes was beautiful or not. This naked body that I can now see me sick, emaciated and pale he is, the whole crossed by thick scars. Hoses come in like a dilapidated machine, the needles pierce from all sides and liquids through the dirty and making noise, like a common sewer. The envelope is torn. Incognito passes over his debonair look, I do not feel any discomfort. My nakedness is his, I leave him, I do not want it.
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