The new day unfurls its first light; the night withdraws and crumbles, quietly. Another morning where I am alone on the stage. It is a path I enjoy. Another day to lose myself. Another day to play. Nature is so generous! And here I am, wandering with all my empty spaces to fill. I gather them, these mornings. These small bridges linking my whole life to this fragile land. Infinitesimal land.

Here, the filings from the cliffs pave my streets. The monuments, scattered by the dunes, trade concrete for ephemeral works, endlessly kneaded by the tongue of the waves. The shores, pricked with sediments and vegetation, are sometimes far more fragile than they appear, and yet I see beyond them, almost an eternity. I have never felt so alive as on this miniature continent. I am convinced of it. I am consumed by it. I anchor myself in this insularity, myself and my vast introspections, in perfect peace, my gaze inked onto the horizon. I curl into it, I temper my upheavals there when I cry out into the wind. I have no fear of being swallowed by the noise of machines or the ceaseless turmoil of a boiling crowd. Sometimes I let my back lean into the tip of a gust and I imagine that no soul exists but mine. Wanderers crossing paths only through a fleeting glance, often lunar. A feeling of exclusivity then inhabits me. Insularity leaves its film upon me, like a second skin. I lean over it as one would over a wishing well and make my fortune from it. All the coins cast there, through that open mouth, have been returned one by one as bookmarks along the curve of my growth.

At this hour when starlings already gather by the hundreds on the lawns, I walk and daydream, my mind searching for little rhymes, pretty pebbles, any scent that will make me smile. The scent of sweet clover, of smoke, of juniper needles, of sandy dust carrying the fragrance of sun-warmed seaweed. The complex bouquet of the undergrowth. A resinous breath, sharp, almost menthol.

The images, the lights, are watercolors, cutouts of brushed material worn at the lapel. They hold no harshness, no sharp angles. They are available, to those who know how to look, to the familiar, to the learners, to the small shoots that will be carried for the first time within the great lullaby. I return to them, to these images, these lights, these untouchable profiles. I perch myself there. I wish I could seize time, preserve the magic that otherwise dulls as it passes.

Storms and torments pass, long crossings follow, inevitably. In clear waters, in troubled waters, in open waters. If I must act, strike out with a strong stroke, reach toward the stars, lean against your railings, I know you will catch me. And if instead all I know is how to laugh and leap, it is still in your arms that I wish to remain.