Je commence volontairement ce billet par une question qui semble à toutes et à tous bien étrange, puisque bien évidemment comme vous ne pouvez pas l'ignorer : aucune information sur le sujet ne filtre régulièrement dans notre chère presse quotidienne.
Feeling the deep huge wind blowing across every part of your body.
Cold crusade up above the river.
Is dreaming flying?
Is sleeping thinking of you being so damn away is like flying away?
If I could I would make this "real" cause you are and I am.
Maybe too real, maybe too far away from the bed I am lying in.
Maybe those distances are too huge for me.
This is not a quest.
It's a land of disappearing, a land of absence, a huge and silent land that appears sometimes.
When I think of the mysterious and elegant flight my memory is doing sometimes, I am entering a mirror, and discover so much reflections all around me.
Is this real or not?
How dreams are?
How this inside space of freedom can still remains the same across the time?
The strange and unique but so fucking personnal and so unique fading.
But too far away from where I am lying in, waiting for my memory to find the picture of you I have kept from there.
Having a nice cup of coffe, in the middle of the night / not to do anything in the right way / listening for an old and genious rock and roll experience / quiet and peacefull moment I try to share with you.