You're changing places, you wake up under another sky, wine is better and the bread here is a real substance.

You are lost as always, but you can't help it. There is nothing you like more than to wash your feet in the tornado. Wayfarer, there is no path!

Do you really believe that a tube of colour will save your life? or that it will justify something in her? Do you truly believe that it is about truth?

Scraping the pavement with your head, you have already walked upside down. You have won, you are your only hero, the village idiot, a spasmed dancer, the stammered singer, the blind and joyous painter who puts little rocks in his shoes.

The children have arrived and will not leave, the place is propitious, the blankets are light, the wind is favourable, meaning adversed. Finally nothing shines anymore, everything is True.

Humberto Poblete-Bustamante
28-sep.-19

Paris, France