Small rimbauds, we too will start tomorrow in search of our black, our other, all those foreigners who harbor. Mr. Chalk took the lead and, after walking the path of the North, one day moored in waters of the rising sun. Kowalski will do so shortly, I imagine that walk: it is what befits a man without a country other than their shoes. Give a forest and at its center something in your bones claim to settle there, bring it home there, stand erect in the midst of himself there. Turner and Turner will not: a change of skin, another death in another name.
We saved knives. Some cuts we make it visible. Campen wherever they want, that nobody lives here now.
