un homme il a mal à la tête il serre son front avec ses mains et demande « mais quoi faire au juste pour que ça s’arrête dites-moi » il supplie avec son corps plié ça fait plein d’hivers dans la même année qu’il ne rit plus dans sa chambre fermée à clé il a écrit sur le mur blanc « on achève bien les bêtes »

Albane Gellé, Un bruit de verre en elle, Inventaire/Invention (cité par Pierre Ménard dans son Comment écrire au quotidien)

Mais moi, demain ça fera 25 jours que je n’ai pas eu mal. Ça prendra fin demain, je le sais. C’est comme ça. Je suis plus léger là. Ne saurai pas dire ce que c’est qui me manque (ou plutôt non qui ne me pèse plus). Peut-être que c’est le froid par la fenêtre. 578 mots pour Eff complètement jouissifs. Savoir ce que ça donnera demain, lors de la relecture... mais c’est là dans mes veines. Ça vivait sa vie propre. The Tunnel encore ¹ :

...Rainer complained he never had a childhood—what luck !—never to have suffered birthpang, nightfear, cradlecap, lake in your lung ; never to have practiced scales or sat numbly before the dentist’s hum or picked your mother up from the floor she’s bled and wept and puked on ; never to have been invaded by a tick, sucked by a leech, bitten by a spider, stung by a bee, slimed on by a slug, seared by a hot pan, or by paper or acquaintance cut, by father cuffed ; never to have been lost in a crowd or store or parking lot or left by a lover without a word or arrogantly lied to or outrageously betrayed—really what luck !—never to have had a nickel roll with slow deliberation down a grate, a balloon burst, toy break ; never to have skinned a knee, bruised a friendship, broken trust ; never to have had to conjugate, keep quiet, tidy, bathe ; to have lost the chance to be hollered at, bullied, beat up (being nothing, indeed, to have no death), and not to have had an earache, life’s lessons to learn, or sums to add reluctantly right up to their bitter miscalculated end—what sublime good fortune, the Greek poet suggested—because Nature is not accustomed to life yet ; it is too new, too incidental, this shiver in the stone, too novel altogether, and would just as soon (as Culp prefers to say) cancer it ; erase, strike, stamp it out—this dubbed in youth, this gicky GroBoy time—so that I would never have been jeered at, called Bullocky Bill on account of my tiny testicles and puny weenie, had I not been available, or caused to cough in a long naked line, to spread my rash-eaten cheeks to the amusement of a hundred eyes, or in a park in Prague gently jacked off by a boy who fondled me from behind a newspaper (or was it a magazine ?), napkin neatly in his idle hand ; and shame need never have lit me like a match, as I burned my slender Being back then, in my old cold youth, until its head was black—best never to drag a breath out of the competing wind, the Greek poet advised, because Being is basically made of heartless hunks and soulless flabs ; it is inert, resists flow, dislikes disturbance, distrusts goals ; in fact, it is fat as a Buddha, sluggish, still as statues, and as pitilessly bronze.