And there if one looks with far this figure from nothing, vacuum of its eyes, empty of sound better, one includes/understands the heart lamellate of thousands of particle of puerility. This face which shouts, fouling of all its folds, breaking of desire for a life vêtu more beautiful of its attributes, this face which calls, dumb, freluquet, says to me to flee.
This figure of horror suffers, ripe of fright, it blows. Blowing painfully in my direction, showing the way to me, quite as empty of only a pair of eyes lamellate of the old man, sad and as smooth as flatness, lamellate of too much good-byes, life of vicissitude! And he suffers the guy! Blowing towards me are breath, without puns with hatred, too simple!
Why reflect raised it, cherishing word for word the heat of its tone, belch for belch the heaviness of these sounds. Seeking cherissor, a polisher who would polish his language, which empoissonnerait its sentences of emphase. And that it rubs its mud! And that it plote! And that it polishes it, this black language which gall the world like a sling strikes you the spirit.
This face which shouts, fouling of all its folds, breaking each desire, launching like thus its morbidity on the world, as a sling which tears you, tears off you the spirit!
I know it this face of nothing, it is mine! Vacuum of eyes, wrinkles of good-byes! I rock the life my nails, scraping the death of the end of the throat, tasting the horror of the end of my words.
And it fouls! And it fouls! Squeaking each syllable on a side, turning over them, reversing, handling, déféquant.
Why reflect, raised it, cherishing for itself its being, its interior of horror. And it polishes it well high and strong, of all the angles, whereas the world pitches and it polishes it, its language! And it délecte of contemptible words obsolete.
And if one looks with far this figure from nothing, died of his eyes, died of gift better, one hears there enticing it song of honor to his puerility. This face which calls, dumb. This face which wishes, if and as much as it can it, to become cold. Cold of desire for becoming smiling, being begged to smile, would be this only of desire, a simple desire to become cold.
And it breaks! And it breaks! Spitting each syllable in a direction, régurgitant them, shitting, vomitting, sucking its own language which it has so much took care to polish of its clean word!
Oh! And that he loves the empty man and that he admires himself, the empty man!
Why?
Because he adores his faculty nothing to lose of what he has.
Because he adores his faculty nothing to lose of what he does not have.