4 (french) Werber, Bernard

Is it the shades of hell?
We slow down our race while, as the hailstones of unusual
storm, bubble-based memories on us.
The corridor twists, turns into spring. I travel always toward
the light of death trying not to
pay attention to their bites. What impression of force No
twenty minutes out of my soul my flesh and I’m already
hundreds of light years.
No sense of loss, much less depletion. I just simply leaving
a rusty armor. I thought this armor protected me. In fact, she
compressing the soul, breath, intelligence.
With this armor, I cashed blows, convinced that inscribe my
wounds there than just scratches. Wide despises.
Everything touched my sensitive roots. Every time of my
life, I saw one by one. Paradoxically, those I have received
have left fewer traces than those I have given. My soul is
like a tree which would be engraved the knife of words and
memories.
Everything happens very quickly. I remember my birth, my
mother force feed me, my father gave me vertigo only fun
and forcing me to play the plane, my first outbreaks of
pimples and the shame they caused me, my car accident,
the slaughter of prisoners Fleury-Merogis, Felix driven to
suicide, the crowd of the Palace Congress booing me, the