A toast to tomorrow's usual
Outside the courtyard a single hand among sea flowers and white fabrics. I don't remember what ten o'clock in the morning is like. I still hear the rustle
of bicycle wheels, alone with a different kind of loneliness, almost foreign to the eye's quick glance, ever less curious and more tedious.
The doors left open at the end of the sky don't bring back that flavor of naïve and mocking solitude, might as well shut them for today.
There's only the garden with the roses to keep me more alone and less alone. Down the road of the avenue it's already the beyond that I no longer feel like touching.
The absurd composure of the olive trees is an immense religious chant, even felled they recite praises for the good fall and for the gift
last to the usurpers. The stairs are now concluded, dear Sun. A toast to tomorrow's usual and to its usual missed hour.














