Trafika Europe 4 - Armenian Rhapsody

of the homme qui rit, something cruel or the stupor of aphasic apnea: and not the ecstasy of anaesthesia, but the stupefaction of mucous membranes worn out by winds, broken into clods, an adam’s mud now sterile. (You know I have difficulty hearing your voices, followed for what… what are you looking for in these fissures? all the roads leading inside are blocked and inside there’s nothing to find: While discomfort remains on the surface, the satan of flabby comebacks behind the curtain of the soft palate leads all the buzzing swarms of silly scrappy hisses in the ears; the sphenoid sinus, the infundibulum of suffering, of aching at the base of the brain, the stooge of the hypophysis, also seriously damaged, sends remorse, pains in the ass, intense twinges (And an ice-cream or a cold proposal are enough to relieve it). only the fluids that filled me, like wax in an empty mould…)

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