(...) saw the crosses and headstones, the graves coagulated geometry. Cried, I think, I covered my mouth again, it felt like falling apart in my arms, held her over the railing, hanging on the cemetery, drinking each and every wrought iron cross, all the stupid original perpetuation of poverty. (...) Maybe while forcing her to look, to know that Paris that she and I denied it from the lies and blind rooster routine and every day, yes, perhaps it was there that the black spot was cleared for a moment ungraspable, faded and jumped back with all spiders on my face, but something in me had seen the other side, there was like a final count of inventory, stock finish, without any words or conduct to follow: a sudden met, a broken branches. Book
Manuel
Pere Lachaise Cemetery. Paris XX
Pere Lachaise Cemetery. Paris XX
Pere Lachaise Cemetery. Paris XX
Pere Lachaise Cemetery. Paris XX
Pere Lachaise Cemetery. Paris XX
Carnavalet Museum. Paris III
The Hive. Paris XV
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