"This morning, on the avenue, my death was walking next to me, under
the plane-trees. I came back home, lied on the bed. My death looked
tired as much as I was. A few minuts later, I woke up, made a coffee and
opened a poems book. Some light came out from the book. I think it was
at this moment that my death left the appartment, crossing the door,
without noise. It was not her time, and perhaps she was depressed by the
beauty of a few words, yes, perhaps the death doesn't support books and
prefers the head ache maker television."
Christian Bobin,
Autoportrait Au Radiateur
