I want to write, but I’ve got a puma’s brains; I want to crown myself with laurel, but it stinks of onions. There’s no word spoken that doesn’t dissolve in mist, there’s no god and no son of god, only progress. So come on, to hell with it, let’s go eat weeds, eat the flesh and fruit of our stupid tears and moans, of our pickled melancholy souls. Come on! Let’s go! So what if I’m wounded—let’s go drink what’s already been drunk, let’s go, crow, and find another crow to fuck. 2/ HAT, COAT, GLOVES Right in front of the Comédie-Française is the Regency Café; and right inside it, there’s this room, hidden, with a table and an easy chair. When I go in, house dust, already on its feet, stands motionless. Between my lips made of rubber, a cigarette butt smoulders, and in the smoke you can see two intensive smokes, the café’s thorax, and in that thorax an oxide of elemental grief. It matters that autumn grafts itself into other autumns, it matters that autumn merges into young shoots, the cloud into half-years, cheekbones into a wrinkle.
