Then I went down into the basement, where my friend—the maniac—busies himself with his electronic graffiti. Finally his language touches me, because he talks to that part of us which insists on drawing profiles on prison walls.

A piece of chalk to follow the contours of what is not, or is no longer, or is not yet; the handwriting each one of us will use to compose his own list of ‘things that quicken the heart,’ to offer, or to erase.

In that moment, poetry will be made by everyone, and there will be emus in the ‘zone.’

Sans Soleil, Chris Marker