To sleep if necessary and to dream the oblivion of that other that we are. To find our voice, our voices, scattered over the warm earth of broken asphalt, to follow the mercury of night, to follow the charioteer of thirst and then to wake up, if necessary, and dream the memory of that other that we are not and not to find but others’ voices faraway, voices that decode some part of us in our accent without knowing it.

 In my dream the waves drag me like a cadaver that has forgotten its name in the crust of the waters. The uncertainty is the necessary bed where my body floats adrift; there is a man who walks over the sea, who comes toward me and tells me to wake up, but in my dream I keep asleep, I never manage to get up and now I don’t know if you should wake up from this dream that is me.