Are you coming, honey ?

The dream is always another life. History is superimposed on it only by deforming itself. Fierce at any approach, immense, sumptuous, breaking the frames in the zigzags of the oddity, he jumps the years and takes us elsewhere where reigns light in human form and where old fairies spin in the middle of the ruins. Something may spring from nothing, a girl of an inaccessible grace awaits you at the entrance of a dilapidated house. This world of the impossible often collapses at the moment I arrive there, sometimes after I have lived there, drunk, eaten, made love several nights in an acrid voluptuousness. Wiggled and undulating nymphs from the springs, seen in profile from the ankle up to the knees, thighs and hips. White, black or red ladies who pass, slide and hasten the pace. If the mothers are puritan, Catholic, old and too horrible, I shamelessly take their daughters on the pillow thinking of the great loves of old. Once awake, I then live for a few hours of thousand questions made to this imaginary world.