Solitude(s) : L'insomnie

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An old thunderstorm rumbles in my head. A thunderstorm born 25 years ago. A storm at times distant, almost forgotten. A thunderstorm often deafening. Literature assured me men existed for a long time. Music taught me their melancholy preceded them. Painting whispered to me that screams can be silent. The trade of men, very fast, seemed to me vague and vain.