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Allucinatio Insulae

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The wind is a great waterfall, a fall through which the air rushes down. What is it that opens itself in the space for the air to precipitate? What is the nature of the accumulation that comes to unleash that frenzied whip?

The violence of the air always appears to be triggered under the sign of a strong decompensation. All its devastating power, all the material turmoil and the dislocation of elements that it produces has as its ultimate goal the restoration of something that had been removed from the place.

The corpses of the wind are the same as the fire's.


The heat takes up everything. The light sweats. The shadow sweats. The palm sweats. All the bodies sweat. Moisture invades everything: nails, lime, bricks, sexes, iron. The moisture leads to sleep. And the people lie down on the sidewalks and sleep. A man and a woman in that corner. Four feet protrude from another one, but it is eight of them. Some more in another street. A quarter to four, then at five, and at another hour without name, Fourier has a siesta on the streets of Tabarca. Here the passion of abandonment and the passion of sleep are being consummated. Free men: when the lizard wakes from its brain and goes out in the sun...


When the water breaks it is white. This is the fruit of the marriage of water and air. The face wet with salt.

Upon disembarking a few drops fall. The rain weights in a strange way, and there is no wing capable of crossing this wind.

A path inward. The ground is littered with white snail shells – the bones of calcination, the empty spiral of blindness. The white snail is an amulet of the end. On the ground, among the greenish stones and especially in the stems of thorns and low dry shrubs, these snails bury the place. The light, invisible swirl, drew all its water, devoured all its color.

A little further a field of cactuses. Some couples of lovers have marked their names on them. The nectar of the prickly pears protected by thorns increasingly sharp in their duel against dryness.

Scars of the declaration. An incarnate flower – or is it blue? – crowns it. (Still the color, here). The names, as a crust for the lips, for the fingers.

At the end, a house in ruins. Abandonment materialized. Inside, on a peeling wall, an inscription: ”I miss you”. Communicating oceans. There you were, A.

The rubble is a stone crossed by desolation. A name sustains it.


The wind increases in intensity to the limit of the bearable. Great clouds of dust and pebbles rise. Ah, doors of vision knocked down by the wind, twinned transparencies of the air and the eye – the dust blinds us. The wind produces tears. But the light opens the pupil and gets into it. The heat appalls it. The solar beast makes the shadow brim over. The shadow is the real specter of light. So goes the eye, full and complete. Here you see in black and white.


Empty are the streets. There are houses with open doors that let in the wind savagely beating the curtain rods with violence. No one appears. Everywhere abandoned buildings. The village is in a state of ruin. There are some wells but all seem to be dry. No, sealed, they are sealed! What guests dwell down there?

A long white ribbon flies through the air with one end tied to wooden boards. Semi-transparent veil, its weight is that of the eyelids during sleep. Cord of smoke, white shadow of the wind: dance of hallucination.

The spectral facade of a building mimetizes with the sky.


To place the body between the line of shade and the line of sunlight. Here reins the incardinal. No possible measure to know why the dimensions have turned to one.

At the beginning of a deserted alley, a table for four. Above it, a vase of dried flowers and an old tablecloth. There is a ceremony which still must be held.

Further, in another street, stands a wheelbarrow belly up, vertical. And before, without fire, in the heat, a grill. Beautiful of excrements and of mud and salt, to the other end of the island, a streetlight no longer illuminates the path that leads to the prison. Idle objects, they too sleep. A free man no longer uses them.

At the foot of a wall, two figures impregnate the place with their wandering. Crowning a long door, protected by a few tiles, a single word: dawn. And the other? Carpe diem.

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