The shriveled is just another succulent. To go back into moist everyday and feel the need, the presence motivating allure. There is such a thing as people. And this is intriguing. After the cemetery I sit outside the Pompidou exhausted and eat a crust of bread with Camembert. The blur recedes and I feel the warmth of hot industrial winds blowing underneath me and I walk over to a newsstand and The New President is all over every cover and strange the feeling of another country’s pride for a potential, a hope that isn’t even their own. Every nation has its own topography of terror, some more misted more perfume clotted than the rest. Yesterday I sat at the base of a tree next to a crypt and the wings of flying ants were shimmering in the distance and suddenly everything moving all that glittered grass and I knew I could want nothing less than truth.
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