home and other iterations

Every morning, I climb into the mute woman's bosom and she carries me in her bloodstream, veins spiderwebbing across the city. A lifegiving force over a century-old, still steady and strong. Anonymous infinities collide against each other in the rapidly flowing current.

High up on Menilmontant, there's a little street where the hermits dwell. It's there that I made my second home, far away from the rest of the world. We build little towers of condensed milk and lavender, roses and coffee grounds, blind to the impossibility of it all.