Serving cabbage soup to a brain that still hasn't understood that I need to hit my head against the wall, but not just any wall, not for fun, but as a kind of prayer, in fact as if I'd received too much love that I didn't deserve, so I hit my head against a red wall, again! three times, thirty times... but it's not enough, and I mustn't close my eyes in the face of this sensation, in the face of this action... it's my complex mechanism, linked to the torture of my sewing machine... I mustn't let anyone distract me or put pity on my shoulder... You have to let me do it... I'm n o t g o i n g to k i l l m y s e l f, I'm not crazy, I just don't want to be soft... I'm hitting the third wall of my imaginary kidnapper... a head without a bandage is a piece of paper blown away by the wind... I've got to wake up full of pebbles and no memory... I have to open my eyes and find myself in the middle of the sea, building corridors... it's three in the morning... in an hour I'll be hitting my head against the wall... I'm waiting for that beautiful pain... I promised myself a bouquet of flowers...