I — I who exist. There’s a voluptuousness in being someone. I am no longer silence. I feel so impotent while living — life that sums up all the disparate and dissonant opposites in a single and ferocious stance: rage.I finally reached the nothing. And in my satisfaction at having reached in myself the minimum of existence, only the necessary breathing — I am therefore free. All that’s left for me is to invent. But I immediately warn myself: I’m uncomfortable. Uncomfortable for myself. I feel ill at ease in this body that is my baggage. But that discomfort is the first step toward my — toward my what? truth? As if I had the truth? I say nothing like real music does. It doesn’t speak words. I feel no longing for myself — what I was no longer interests me! And if I should speak, may I allow myself to be discontinuous: I have no obligation to myself. I go on accumulating myself, accumulating myself, accumulating myself — until I no longer fit within me and burst into words.When I write, I mix one color with another, and a new color is born.I want to forget that I never forgot.
