Dans le sommeil quand d'un vieil le corps homme ne se rend plus compte de ses frontires, et les mensonges a aplati par gravitation comme un seul de la cire dans son lit... Il s'goutte vers le bas au plancher et se dplace l comme une larme en bas d'une joue... Sous la porte arrire dans le pr argent, comme une piscine de sperme, givre sous la lune, comme si en sa premire nature, sans os et absurde.
La lune le soulve vers le haut dans son champ blanc, un nuage form comme un vieil homme, poreux avec des toiles.
Il flotte par les branches fonces leves, un cadavre embrouill dans un arbre sur un fleuve.
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