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Light under the skull
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
cherry tree.
Of your face I see the comma, on the right, next to the corner of your mouth.
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