SHE

("It's true that I hear my own song with impunity, that I sing even often, to myself, my song is the tale of my daily desires, my lazily luxurious wound of nervous movements, the mirror here in my room is my Siren's region, its watery modulations of myself, dragged across the glass of the afternoon, all these rocks of my psyche, against which the waves of all the sharp outbursts of pride, self-irony and sarcasm toward others, of triumphant memories and renewed enthusiasms, and perhaps some adulterous frivolity, some selective insensitivity --- "because the waves of the sea and the whirlwinds of fire," according to Homer, "snatch away" --- "any sea monster with half its body buried in the cave," "full of heads," "in a terrible abyss" --- around me, everything becomes truly incomprehensible, and I sing anyway, I do everything my thoughts melt into the heat of a kiss, feeling a crazy and propitious shadow swell my words, making my bewitching image be sought and seen, with no other divinity capable of calming the waves, or the eyes, phone calls and meetings, never enough cream on the skin, and nails always perfect, perfumed like a courtesan waiting for a prince --- speaking perhaps with new friends, knowledgeable about many things, everything, they flood me so much with their styles of fixing everything in words that I end up imitating their necklines and hairstyles, despite their hurried lives driven by an irony that sometimes unnerves me)