Your letter arrived to me yesterday. I recognized your writing, his brittleness. I did not expect it. I did not expect it any more. Quickly, too quickly, I wanted to go to the meeting of you. A torn envelope, awkward gestures damaging the first sentences; I was in a hurry of you. On the blank paper, the shades of your words scribbled with goes-quickly, the erasures, the hesitations, all these sentences thrown in a cry. I felt your certainty, your interrogations. More than ever, you revealed yourself. No the hand passed on a face to divert the attention, not wick of hair falling to veil your flame. There are in front of me the words which you dared to pronounce, throwing them to paper with the ink of your heart. You launched out like insane, to go quickly, double these doubts which would like that you wait still and still. They imposed some erasures for these too strong words which frighten them. They are with the door of your mouth, to the forefront of your feather. One day next, you will dare. Vis-a-vis me, without letter, with a glance, a smile, we will embark on the river of our passion.
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
