07-08-2008
Love Israel
I listen to “Lachlom” of Yael Naim. I listen to even nothing any more but that. That points out my love of holidays to me, the salt of its skin bronzed with the sun of the Mediterranean, the softness of its black eyes also, blacks as the weapon which it carried on him all the day, I remember his heat, when I lay on his hot body the morning with the alarm clock, I let myself go to the beat of his heart, that beat gently and regularly, at the rhythm of the waves of its desire for to leave me which foamed at the time to carry me and me vacuum and coward on the beach of our bed. I was more than one bottle which came to be failed far and which had lost any direction. I did not exist any more but for that, to measure me day after day with him, to lose this combat which I carried out until the last day, even if I had badly, the last day, even if that burned me in inside to leave it without to have prevented it, without him to have said that the night even I would pass it without him, that a white plane was going to carry me in the sky and that all that would be so far from me, that I would become again a bottle thrown to water, far from the shores, any hope and of any desire, any dream and any desire. Far from him, me, finally. Far from the direction and love. Even of Jerusalem, I did not think any more that to find it, even on the aircraft, I hoped only to re-examine it last once.
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