Mass small grains infiltrating and interfering. The sand passes through the window and fall cynically on the table I use as a desk. A dust filter separates my hand from the paper. A dust filter separates my eyes from the flowers ‘color. A dust filter separates my heart from my mind. Every day, I quickly wipe with my hand and despair of not being able to do anything. It is nothing else than just small beige grains. Small grains against which it is impossible to fight. Small grains that you see only when it is accumulated.
Thus everything is beige. Streets, cars, posters, buildings. It is neither yellow nor pink. It is beige. Everything is the same, bland, dull and without personality. When everything is beige, the gaze fall bored. It is not longer resilience. It is abandon. Fantasy evaporates with the promise of warm nights, of broken faces by the sun, of infinite horizon of dunes. Dreams flight carried by theses small grains that only follow wind’s opportunities. Dunes move and leave me without my yesterday’s landmarks. Without fantasies, without benchmarks, I let myself invaded by small grains. I get beige and opportunist at my turn.
Zyphera 