Who rolls does not skim foam, but gravel sticks to clay, remains, agglomerated, incorporated with its movement: which is the form, which is its beginning?
The dung-beetle, curled into a ball, grows bigger, hardens, could start an avalanche. Whoever thinks of exposing his heart must expect the amalgam melt him entirely. Will the surgical blade of analysis or religion arm us against ourselves? Will it meet an ivory core - or only waste, waste, clot of waste in the unrecognizable center, dust pulled by wind?
Whole rolls but does not amass mousse, but glazes or collects gravel, debris, well agglomerated by movement, well incorporated, that one finds the form and its point of departure from it. La pelote du bousier grows, durcit, suffices to loose an avalanche. Qui songe à mettre à nu his soulable to see the sweet amalgam of his foundation, entire in his hand. Cette lame chirurgicale dont l’analyse ou la religion nous arme contre nous-même rencontrera-t-elle un noyau d’ivoire – ou seulement déchets, déchets, ramassis de déchets jusqu’au centre méconnaissable, poussière entraînée par le vent ?