It does not suture, it incises. No way, no one will ever more sing on the paper. Baudelaire made it give back some out of tune sound of cracked bell, such a voice would no longer be able to bring back any Eurydice from the Underworld. The memory of a longing for beauty prevails in her. Both pensive and a legatee, such is lyricism wishing to go on believing in the obstinacy of care, the warrant of the continuity of work.
Lyricism never relinquishes.
Until the very hour we disappear, it will remember that we once had dreams. Desperately, it digs depth within surfaces. Crisis is its time and space. Whether it be crises of lines or of meanings, our language business is a matter of broken lines. Rhythmed according to soarings and falls, like our love stories.