“Music is a horizontal force that unfolds in time” – Leon Fleischer

Today, at different times, I ran into two friends who’d had a fight…

In my childhood room, where I dreamed, where interminable and delicious spaces of boredom unfolded, those empty hours that my parents didn’t fill with either after-school activities or television. As I look back, I understand the privilege of those moments when I could practically feel my bones growing. In the slowness of the dream and the thickness of the silence, one could measure the density of the time that flowed past. The hours of boredom of childhood are gardens of time, tilled with frustrations, worked over with slow eternities, haunted by far-off futures. I wandered among them, a prisoner of my room and of winter Wednesdays. There I hatched desires and images. I defined myself, learned myself by heart, and, above all, I drew up endless escape plans.

This is the captivating sexuality of beautiful extraterrestrial beings. But it’s not the warm love of humans.
This is painful voluptuousness followed by deadly exhaustion.
This is the poison, the deceptive tenderness of demons.