Aiguille du Midi, May 2016, a wait and globules on the menu for the children of paradise. Relieved souls and the freedom from the accountable world. Lovers infatuated by daydreams twirling in a concrete nest. They sing of their thirst for celestial fiction, for a world without social codes where wings could spread large and free with a limitless span. Far away, up there, gliding in the atmosphere near the sun, the desperate quest for the vertical descent which will return them, out of necessity, towards the hideous surface from which they have fled.
Stuck in their freedom as birds in a cage with sky coloured bars, they anticipate the end of winter and the bitter return of disenchantment. With it tarred roads, smooth cleanliness and sparkling of the lifeless things. With it the image from which they would like to free themselves and which sticks to them like feathers to tar escaped from a tanker discharging its blanket on the golden azure.
I would like to have no more love for the screens which devour but it remains the moment of the sacred fire where the I disappears into clouds, laughing at terrestrial concerns and at the deceiving body.
So, once again we will understand the songs of the mockingbirds in the delicate atmosphere of pure snow crystals and enigmatic smiles, which no click could retranslate, reforming themselves far from their own mirrors and the opinion of other’s.