I pull off my clothes, I leave my city, my district, my country.
I walk, I cross, furrow, transpierce; I run, I stride, I dance, I advance. Walkabout, escapade, to the horizon, I follow my path to drunkenness, to illumination.
I’m alive, I’m getting closer to death, the sun, every detail leaps out, grasps me, assails me. As far as the eye can see, freedom, infinity, a sensation of wind, of ponds, of night. I lift my 246 eyes, I’m immense, I slide, I embrace the land, faces, landscapes.
I step out of the frame, I welcome disaster, I’m in a state of bedazzlement, I’m not alone, I can feel it, I meet with beauty at every moment, and the wandering carries me on its shoulders like a child.

“Roving Pumice stone – Concrete soles Seeds, brambles – tears, purity, weapons, hardness, deseeded roses, tinted dreams I have this face I’m wandering I’m still looking […]”

From the unpublished poem The Fugitive, by Marion Collé.