© Laurent Lafolie
This huge, empty ocean, torn from our memory, this delightful, stolen space, shirked with every day that passes, to this unbearable will to always want to be here, a survivor, rich water, treasures, salted by the sweat of those who sunk.
This sea of silence, submerged by earth, hidden, floating at each full moon, this secret water, bathed by a faded sun, pale, wintry, this ancient sea, used, tired of speaking to us every time we close our eyes, this muffled water, quilted, lost beyond “Heracle’s Columns” like vertigo, rocking us, blowing in our ears, pushing us further by the wind that carries us, silent, making no noise, far, towards the horizon and away from our constant representation.
