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The game of the mirror, I do not find my space; Perhaps because it is too smooth or

Then one of those in the labyrinth of ice. Not a sharp image but only form.

And light in the dark.

I land on objects. I walk and cling to a shine.

There, just ready.

A flash ! An instinct!

To catch it without imprisoning it. No ! I do not want to cage a sensation

Detour of a face. I put my device there because I need to heat myself.

It's hot in me. It scolds, it boils.

And fire and water, you saw how beautiful it is?

Born photographer in the spotlight?

It is not me.

There is work and sweat. Yes, there has always been water, but lively, a torrent. Like him

I struck stones, I parted, smashed.

Constraints, a bed too small, ...

One day, a discovery: an ocular extension that proved to be my exit door and

my breath .

Fire too. He loves me. I gotta get it.

No doubt for that, the portraits. I need to listen to the crackling of souls through

Of the grain.

It's music!

My picture rises, she leaps; She can shout even loudly.

And movement. F*** I need the movement. A pair of addidas and

Colors. Movement !

My words are my images and for the moment my images become my words.

I do not see the world in two columns. I prefer a good melting pote, existences

Singular to murderous identities.

That's what I like about the mix of things.



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