Pour, donc, Serge Bloch
Foin de D.
(Trrr , etc.
Ouh là là, déjà.
Alors, qu’ai je noté ? Ah, oui. Yes. Oui, yes. Definitively. As I write… wait.. Waits… I’m back in a hunch. Waits.)
As I realize I’m quite faster than my computer for taking important decisions, here is mine : I’ll write this in English, for I want to stay a bit « maladroit » and become quite more playful.
So, right to the heart of the matter, girls, and animals, plants, babies, and guys. Serge (pronounce like Cierge) taught me today he had had a huge double decker somewhere in America, and I’m actually having a hard time continuing to write as my stomach keeps silent as a rock, but as my spirit is poking around my shelves, estimating the amount and variety of spices, the state of the garlic, and the cleanliness of the pan. My bank account comes to mind, too. Not the scam. And the girl, should I dare the girls, I saw or met down there in Lussan where the Lussanoises and Lussanois live. But I’ll continue.
I feel like in a plane, with my own syrupy voice annoying the silence of my newly rejoined appartment, and making my ears cry (as it wasn’t enough today) as I reread what I just wrote in case I’m telling bullshit without being conscious of it, but I think I’ll put a period here. And terminate the phrase.
Oh, Love, look, my sex has just experienced the impatience of my sick mind. Hopefully, these persons seemed, at least for the one with a visible face, guess who, to be having pleasure. Not fun, pleasure. But she was one beautiful one amid a hundred ungracious women. Curiously, all that sex seems to be taking place in a traditional family structure (although there seems to be a lot of bastards, there).
Hence I prefer to start speaking to you about a whole different topic. What did I have in mind ? Thelonious, help me. Ah ! Aaaah ! That was it ! Jaaaz. Do you play piano, darling ? Because I’m only able to improvise Blues on my Blues blue harmonica. Blue, like the fruit, under the earth ; under the moon. Split harmony/ Nuclear power/ Strong Literature.
White customary mask is Gentle. Polite, and obsequious. White customary mask is transparent. White is a mask.
Monk, guide me. Not you, the monk. Precisely not you, the Priest. The Prophet is banned from my literature.
And colors, by the way, are perceived quite differently under a monitored straight jacket (Revolution won’t be televised, sang someone) as with smoking a good joint in Central Park during a bright day, in April without any Guiliani, Biden, Retailleau or Trump’s henchmen to turn you paranoid. And then locked. And then resentful, wounded and insulted for life. Bravo, los Republicanos.
You see, I’m so sure of my proposition (only Love exists) that I’ll publish what was intended like a full serial novel in its unprocessed state.
Semantic error.