Despair always delivers something important. The flow of bodily sensations must gradually decrease to give place to the disordered dance of free ideas: soldiers carry a semi-transparent American flag; some thick nerves depolarize making a long way between the stimulus and reflection, a will to draw wet hands on the white tiles of the bathroom to feel the square limits between each flat surface, the trembling and burning sensation of an electric shock between the fingers; a needle that penetrates the skin and the following pressure of the fingers to squeeze out the first drop of blood, the fear of having lost a wallet and the eagerness of trying to remember what was inside; ultimately, images and impulses that sometimes mingle and sometimes repel it selves quickly.

The desert has to release something: a lizard, a lump of salt or wild thirst.

Back out of exile, relieved returns someone to its country, house or city.

The despair releases a stigma of pain and relief: after all, despair is fast and intense.

The whisper of a song at low-frequency in the ear betrays the plaything:

I heard her say over my shoulder

‘we’ll meet again someday on the avenue’:

tangled up in blue