The world of the night at the tick of the clock drains the heart tinnitus initialing the doubts and pains of the poor plowman in an imbroglio of connections to strip the sound from below to graph the sound above. Of this inventoried world at the Guinness of minimal art remains open the presence of dreams scrambled by the clamor of chatter in the brown jackets of the mind wrapped in satisfactions of the distribution of prizes in the time of John the Baptist. There was the receding sea on the sand the hair braids of the shorn horse mane disappeared in the tidal wave in contact with air and ether suckers gathered half mystery half dark pearl of the pitfalls. On the rising the rose was pointing with a smell of green algae language effect holding out his full mouth methane bubbles at the level of the bathing cabins then drifted on the horizon the windsurfer crying wolf in front of the sublime wave. answered him security whistles presumed histrions of the Relève perpetuating at the gates of the city fear of invaders click clicking their iron boots the damp cobblestones of the dark alleys with pestilential odors to cut the throat of the maskless. Not far from there under the gilding of reason prey to the impatience of waiting Little Pierre watched the last palpitations of the candle late watch companion spent wringing the neck of the insanities of oblivion homage paid to the one who at the bottom of the calle cherished the little pebble white with white. 1045
