Night frights

Selfish puddle, ...locked behind a shellfish, and why?
Why is it bad and shameful to be selfish? Why is it wrong to whine or...?

Perhaps because our 'self' is so insignificant we do not wish to pester others with it. Yes.
It is a long burden and road to live with our self, to bear day after seconds the stupid acts and silly thoughts.

Selfish puddle,... locked behing a shellfish, is better.
Don't forget what you are, transparency.

Magnifying Bottle

Metro stations

Paris metrostations are amazing : alone, they are an independant little underworld where sunlight, sky and moon are just a fading memory. Light here comes from neon tubes, and it's white, splashing the earthenware of the walls , dripping on the dark floor.
Chewed-gums are legion : they dapple the ground, stamped on day after day. Blacker stains under the fine dust.
The world above is a tale : down there is the realm of a snakelike beast of the underground : the Train.

And the people. From everykind : Babies in strollers. African women in bright robes. Myriads of teenagers, fancy clothed and good-looking girls. Men in suits, just fresh from work. These are the transient ones : for them stations are just a transit zone.
But there are dwellers under the ground : the artists, musicians and painters. Poor and Beggars. Will they end up forgetting what daylight means?

They are places for wild adventuring, daring and fleeting meetings, flashing smiles but fleeing gazes. A danger glides in the air. Fear of the Other who could harm us. And metrostations are teeming with others.

I handed a one euro piece of money to an old man sitting in Chatelet-les-Halles. I didn't have much with me. I smiled and he said : 'thank you, mademoiselle'. Nobody had seemed to notice him. He and I are akin : we are ghosts of some kind.
I visited some métrostations, not just passing through them, no : but enjoying the place for itself, drinking in the weird atmoshere of the underground.
I wish I had taken the picture-taker with me. Another time, perhaps.

Window seen through blue water

Kind Boy

He is the Kind Boy, his heart as wide as all the oceans put together! His smile so gentle and bright sounds like a rainbow.
Melancholic he is, yes, poetic mind and blue deep eyes that scan the world.

I've watched you trying to attract attention playing soccer with an empty bottle of water during a sport lesson. I've observed you as you looked uncomfortable among the others, not daring to retie links with one who had been your friend long ago. I've caught you watching him, moving awkwardly like a shy butterfly. One hour later you were playing with him, sprinkling each other with water, under the fiery Sun.
I've watched you cry silently during French lessons, tears sliding on your red cheeks, and me beside you cried because of your pain, pain which source I did not know.
I've watched you laugh, oh delight, the sweetest sight is your smile and twinkling ocean eyes.

Your being calls to mine...Yet I am the transparency. Should I let you go and forget me? I will fade from your thoughts, from your dreams, from your memories. My existence will dwindle into the Nothingness of ghosts.

But I want to see you smile and hear your voice. Selfish. I want you to be happy.

Be happy, Kind Boy. With all my fickle strength I promise you a blissful life ;
You are a Treasure. You will find a keeper who will sew happiness into you.

tea-tree flamboyance 

golden drinks

Cups are like lenses : they grab the goldness of the sunlight and spill it right on the white table. A delight for all eyes to see : the yellow shadows moving, gaining colors with the sun, or dwindling as the night darkens the sky.

But one should not forget to drink one's tea before it all becomes icy.

Gold convergence : tea looks.