You played the flute with equal application and dexterity: I was
the music in your mouth.
Is it because of the touch of your nail against the ivory that your
preference is for pianos and organs? Because of the cords and the
pipes, or the proximity of the silent statuary? I understood that
you also enjoy sitting up straight opposite the night: facing the
keyboard like a page to be written on. Black on white are the signs,
notes that glide or are struck. And in your voice, when you sing,
the night rises and falls with your breath, seeking its day.
the French by Dawn Cornelio