What is left of us at the dawn of our forgetting? This could be the story of a future memory or that of a forgotten future. A fragment of a mythical dream in our frozen memories. What is left of us at the dawn of our forgetting? When presence is no longer flesh and our words are murmurs? In the spectrum of our desires emerges the shore of an intimacy become unsayable. In the lassitude of our talismans we count the beads of murmuring and imperious desire.

It may be the story of a fable to be invented or that of a legend that has crossed our eyelids. The vertigo of a form whose interpretation is the prelude to survival. The perturbation of an urgency or that of a repetition hoped for. The trace of a movement defying knowledge, in the embrace of an impossible infinity.

It may be the story of a time outside time. An address in the distance. An unknown, buried. The searing flash of a hidden nomadism, in the beyond of our expectations, in the sweetness of our forgetting.