Each end of the day, when the last flashes of the day ooze on the dilapidated walls, you return to live in the wreck of your devastated castle. You hate this day which attacks you, this sun which posts your erosion. Front, you liked them so much. It was, it does not have there so a long time. On the terrace in front of the green mounts, you extended bronzing, singing quietly. Then, there was, in this summer month, this horde of barbarians which seized you, of your goods, of all your hold. When the barbarians went themselves from there, fire finished consuming your past. They wanted nothing to leave. They offered to you in gift nothing like past, the vacuum like project. But in your immateriality, still remains in you, a trace of humanity ridge of this fidelity at the place where you lived. Each night is a made nostalgic return of volatility, of lightness between the walls of your past. You have until the night of times to give a direction to your life without present.
J'aime ce qui est gothique, ce qui est romantique, je vous présente mes textes et mes photos. I like what is gothic, what is romantic, I present my texts and photos Steffan Urell
