Consolle

The memory and the dream, the cold register of every thing that it scans a cartesian inventory and the emotional animation, disturbed and sentimental, of every space that suddenly seems to take breath, seems to sigh confessing passions and unspeakable dreams that lie as little butterfly within the armchairs, which hide as moths in tents, floating in the air together with puffs of powder and the ghost bodiless of desire.