1. Emprunter un couloir
La jeunesse ou la maturité sont théâtrales, alors, autant les faire claquer à la face du public, métaphoriquement ou littéralement. En se renouvelant sans cesse, de quelques façons que ce soient, avec de préférence a singular path that can remain misunderstood of the vulgar, to use Tzara, a metamorphosis that can gradually mutate into something unknown and an adventure with the ultimate goal eludes us, the outcome is uncertain, although it is the same for each of us. From the greenness of old age there is a road that is borrowed, and as you build a road that no one else can understand and take for you then, you need to transcribe it for measuring Can you still make it.
2. Games with yourself
scene in the world around you. You spark of creative energy, that of the explorer who ventures into a new area. There is this feeling which assails me, that overwhelms me and I gives as much wing as nausea. creative wings, the feeling that everything remains to be done, then in a destructive irony, devastating the unanimous declaration that the newspaper is an art, almost as if there was no has to reveal. Just label, transcribe and show by any means imaginable, or even just be what it is, with or without any effort, by playing or not, be beautiful or ugly and therefore Art.
scene in the world around you. You spark of creative energy, that of the explorer who ventures into a new area. There is this feeling which assails me, that overwhelms me and I gives as much wing as nausea. creative wings, the feeling that everything remains to be done, then in a destructive irony, devastating the unanimous declaration that the newspaper is an art, almost as if there was no has to reveal. Just label, transcribe and show by any means imaginable, or even just be what it is, with or without any effort, by playing or not, be beautiful or ugly and therefore Art.
3. The cornerstone
emotional resonance, the echo of our feelings that have only two respites, the sound of beating wings of our emotional impulses come conflict with the outside world. Looks like I'm writing an illusion, a world that does not exist and invent constantly, until they hear the rustle of her own heart. I see a mirage, a nightmare dream of happiness, the thirst for utopian or fantasy of escape to be staged. I see the dream a chimera that changes shape, a dream and glowing in a myth which much is expected, what one is authorized to be destroying what we are.
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