Les angoisses d'un écrivain qui s'interroge sur l'inspiration et la répétition dans le processus de création et d'une manière plus générale sur la signification de son existence. ©Electre 2025

Christophe. Something here is frozen and icy. In such an undeniably still sunday, limitless, over any boundary, even space doesn't make any sense. The room is dark. I lit a candle. For you. My words generate fast through the medium of distance and become a bit painful, nostalgic, corny beyond measure. The window is open and the courtyard air filtrates through the breathing curtains in soft careful blows, as if coming through an hospital room. Dear Christophe. And who the fuck are you by the way? After a whole sunny week, here comes a series of gloomy days. Sky is dark as in the bad neapolitan paintings, with clouds rolling in the frozen silver like tragic battlefields. People walking in the streets keep their head down, filled with obscurity and electricity. It doesn't rain. As for me today I am hollow and empty, you could say something in me keeps falling and finding no bottom. Asia Argento.

I woke up this afternoon with the urge of continuing our shortest dialogue ever. Then I found your mermaid-merman Christophe mail. Last night I dreamt about a scary black dog and woke up with an itchy left hand. I write this mail from Praha not without hesitation and pain, and punch my words in as if trying to get your attention. And if I fall asleep again tonight I will dream about white teenage sirens surfing on the net with this mail on their beaks, delivering it to you, then disappearing in the cold hard sea. This bit of dialogue rises over my trite problems, towards the purest form of blablah. I wrote this for you at 08:04 pm. Asia Argento.

(We are alone in this piazza. The world is so empty. I have a half sad smile.)