When the young sun is caressing the windows, when it's timidly flowing over the door sill and with thin silk of warmth it's covering the room floor, a girl with fair and uncombed hair is rushing outside to dress herself with the morning's sunshine. By the front door there's a weary old woman sitting on a bench, with a fair look she sees off the girl. The old lady's hands (maybe by force of habit set for a prayer) rest on the thick skirt. The house is shedding a tenebrous shadow, and the girl runs off. 

Only the evening sun talks the girl into coming back and embarrassed by the latter's tirelessness it colours her loose hair rosily. The bench by the house is still dull. The passing girl glows crimson on it. But the eyes of the old lady don't glint anymore. The hands mutely rest on the thick skirt. 

une tasse éternelle...

It cannot be otherwise, when tacky and tense sounds of a saxophone start cleaving the walls of an evening's kitchen. It cannot happen differently, when the sweetish smell of brewed camomiles is following the dense melody throughout the clingy walls. And this awkward knocking so fairly lightened by the forlorn street orb cannot be any different. And us both, we can't be smiling differently than now with our damp and coloured by the drowsing sun lips. Looking up with drowning in a secret eyes and diving in again. And hands, they're just resting here. By no means are they demanding and divining for a sapid touch - they're just laying on the table set with shadows. The tips of my fingers are playing solo of the flowered cup. Eyes of yours and mine glowing with a dim light are drowsing in a luscious mist. The sinking melody of the walls moves closer and webs my fingers. The blues lead them onto your warm cheek. My palm stills hand in hand with the nocturnal light on your unearthly face. The tea brews up again. 

Amid the rumble of the pavements you found an islet where you're paddling now in the absolute heat. Lucid pearls of light are dropping from every lash. And he is thawing in those pearls. 'I am afraid of drowning.' You couldn't take the mildness of the green bed, you hardly opened the sunk eyes. And when the pupils met the entire deluge, the reality started raining with sound, with colour, it came flowing and pulling and carrying you away with it, only... a very different sound, a very different colour flows in from the starry tiny droplets and lets you stay on this lone islet. And you're forever paddling in the absolute heat...

Twenty-four hours of hushed voices, of lonesome taciturnity is too much to bear. I cry for the moon, I call for the wane... break through! Or at least taste the unrest, the vacant hectic waves of disharmony. Not in a way to be scattered to the winds... but fairly enough to want and shed the bits of good on me... Seems I cry for too much, seems the moon frayed away this night.