We live by the eye laid on our present migrations. Intelligence.
We think by the glance directed on our past migrations. Memory.
We hope by the vision of our future migrations. Willingness
But what are these moving glances? Which form or which spirit animates them?
It is very delicate to rest from the game of our glances, this including at a time of our drowsy nights. Indeed, sleep pursues its intoxication with the liking of our migrating imaginations.
Would there be no time, no space to escape the noise of our migrations? Until my thoughts whose cantus firmus beat to the measure of the currents inscribed in the heart of the entangled migrations of our insurgent bodies. Life.
And, in fact, language, whatever its form, does not escape at all from these infinite movements that are our migrations.
No time, no moment, however ephemeral, escapes the indifferent migration.
Consequently, only my glance, itself migrant, can dare the indecency to visualize, in itself and beyond itself, to freeze our migrations, even if only for a moment. In fact, everything is naturally migration, also in the glance put on a glance.