by Jean-Michel Maulpoix
You take the ocean on wide-ruled notebooks where you draw round
letters that stain. Sometimes you play music, your back nice and straight,
your heart in tears, not knowing why you are trembling so, nor what
strange pleasure you find in this bewilderment, nor exactly what you
expect from words, nor which harmonies you are being lead to by these
feverish and invisible footbridges where, without realizing it, you once
climbed and whose docile passenger you will remain till the end.
-from A Matter of Blue