The heap of sheets I had place before me reduced to zero. Nil, nothing, the problematic
origin of everything.
Do I see ice-cold samples of reality?
Do eye movements in the dark explain what images form under the skull? I mean:
do they throw light on it?
Or the contrary?
Am I doomed to snapshots with where I have plenty of cones on my retina?
Of this landscape I see some blossoms on a branch of an – after all – splendid
Of your face I see the comma, on the right, next to the corner of your mouth.