It is in forbidden words that I try to understand myself. Anger, Revolution, Vocabulary, Pain, Hatred, Love and Emotion. A stuttering by the light of a candle I search who seeks to feel, the sighs of suffering in this volcanic brazier that is my conscience in constant thirst to learn to express itself clearly. They say charged sentences, that they pierce the light walls of patience, launched in front of the dry moats of contemptuous saliva, of a castle of soaps splashed with the blinding blind teenager, of a glossary making him sweat as he slipped directly in the trap of his own language, French forgotten vocabulary. What a lyrical masquerade to justify the assassination of the intellect of a nation. No matter how hard I look, every day I find reason to think about hanging. I suck the lack of fresh air, and put it to dry to do like everyone else, if to run after my tongue and the art it is to speak it, make me play in the shade, butcher a waltz of sharp tirades leading me to eat, the tongues cut off of these sheep fed on the spoiler of pigeons swarming the world. I inspire the brazier who calculates my scolding, verifies the digest of their humble legitimacies, to be growing in my bowels to wake up better, the soul sleeping in me, that of being literate. That we extirpate in English, the complexity of a fair definition, for a chewy simplicity of absorption, I prefer to take the cobblestones and go to war against the tar. I spin the wool as much as we spin the cotton, spinning the plastic is taking us for idiots, the information I want pragmatic, useful, like a lesson, the art of synthetics is disinformation . Let there flow water in all its noisy streams, but it is indeed facing the sea that I like to put my hands in the water, it is indeed at sea that in any case, return the streams.