It failed.
It failed again.

Rebuilt as repetition.
Rebuilt as denial.

It keeps falling into its own architecture.

Trahir la Mère Nature.
Construire une seconde mère.
La détruire. Recommencer.

(Betray Mother Nature.
Build a second mother
just to kill her twice.)

I am the broken dream
whose substance was spent before it could speak.

I am the flood still waiting for its own resolution.

And yet I cannot answer even the simplest question—

Who are you? What do you want from this life?

The dreams dissolved beneath マリア．．．
spider-like legs breaking into white.

Fille banale.

Maria opens her eyes slowly,
but the room is already drowned in muted darkness.
Circles tremble on the ceiling like dying halos.

—

FIRST DAY AT WORK.

This is not a story. Not even mine.
It belongs to every child who once believed work was an extension of love.

Read more

A while ago, I asked you for the words that marked you, in any language. This is my reply. Thank you for taking part.

Haunted nights.

Echo.

Night.

River

Rivers

Велибор

urocza

Totenstille

Body

Offer something to the Echo of Sunday.

If it answers you, it will arrive this week - in fragments, in poems, in memory.

Your name will be rewritten once. The archive will recognize you.

The first entry is given at half the cost of passage.

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I wrote this piece to resemble the agitated drift of thoughts dissolving into the sea—
that moment of looking at the sky while still inside it, swallowed by it, held by it.

Enjoy.

I almost drowned. I almost lost.
Something in me came back clean.

SHADOW — BEACH

Amalgame. Asphyxie de velours. Les ombres se sont conglomerées.

From within my eyes, there were sumptuous rivers.

Clouds—mist falling around me.
Each time I look into the dusk, it ends up blackening.

I wonder what truly exists inside the endless hell we name the Abyss.

I extend my hand.
It gets lost in the noir of ink,
lost in the flow.

The flow is swallowing me.

The sand shifts beneath the sinking pyramid.
Nothing holds.
Sand slides

slyly

between my toes,

like águas da folia.

Paintings—always Stormy Sea at Night.
The abyss fascinates and intimidates.

тоска.

And behind тоска, there is often a strange sense of freedom.

When I touch the dark sea-clouds,
the waves whisper they will liberate me.

me libérer de quoi ?
De toi-même.

THE VOICE OF THE SEA

A hum that clings to my bones.
Low. Repeating.

Você é livre.

you are free.

Ești liberă.
自由があります。

T’es libre.

AM I FREE ?

de quoi. De qui ?

De toi-meme.

Take a Friday.
Go to Odaiba.
Forget about work.

Your eyes—already fading.
Your face—sunken into the void.

I once read: faded eyes mean permission to rest.

So I took a week off.

Fed on what rots.
My smiles died with the tide.

I only met the abyss.

The voice again:

Seja guiada pelo invisível.
Deixa-se ir.

Stay. Stay here, Joana.

Across the sand—between broken clay and wild-water dreams.

And so I did.

Almost midnight.
Alone on the beach.

I took off my clothes.

The waves drew me in—
to my throat,
to my nose.

ナイト　深淵

浄化 - PURIFICATION

my body is estrangulado.
A current from um lado, another de um outro.
oh painters, oh art lovers—fanatics of Aivazovsky, you are blind.
your eyes are covered—while I see. I drown thus I see.
I smile as the waves crush me.
экстаз.

The waves speak.

Silver. Endless.

They don’t calm —
they erase.

—

Here, no one names you.
here, no one screams at you.

Only the sea remains.
Only the movement.

—

Cantando como as flores.

Inside the ferocious, abyssal murk , I float on my back and extend my hands and look at the sky…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

—

This is part of the second set of Screams and Echoes. I focus here on divine revelations, ecstatic decay, and dark states - almost a way of reclaiming power over one’s own shadow.

To access the full series, leave an offering. In return, you will receive everything: the Audio Fragments, diaries from all posts, and a personal poem of your choice.

Subscribe now

More from the same ritual

Hello, everybody.

This is not for you.

This is a story about artists that is not made for them—only for their shadows.

A short story in verse—

about a painter of the ocean.

Layer I - the beautiful ocean.

Colors pumped up.

Darkness followed it.

A thirst for beauty.

A thirst for creativity

A thirst for depth.

Vas-y. Crée quelque chose de beau…

I tolerate the pale colors of the ocean.

It floods upward—superficial waves, almost cloudlike.

A paradise rendered in white, too clean to be real.

When I stand in front of it,

it feels like the worst resolution imaginable—

a world smoothed until nothing resists it anymore.

Dissatisfied.

La lumière m’échappe…

better.

mieux.

We have to brush it up.

Light turning on itself—

becoming its own darkness

at the peak of mastery.

This is not me.

C’est pas moi.

I wish I could…

descend.

///

Where.

Where.

where.

Second Layer — Aquatic life.

In art school, they always told me not to leave white spaces on a painting.

Always fill everything. Always saturate the surface until nothing is left unclaimed.

I used to get tens at the end of the year.

No one ever saw the chaos that protruded from the edges of my work—

the darkness that rose quietly from the corners of my own soul,

held back only by discipline, by rules, by “finish it properly.”

Should I show it to you? I don’t even know.

I only know how to paint.

The brush touches the white surface,

then propels itself—fast, almost escaping me—

tumbling outward.

But it is important to leave white spaces.

Not emptiness. Not absence.

Breathing points.

Black spaces too.

//

夢

の

断

片

Inside the white space.

The pale, almost indifferent calm of the beach.

o meu rosto ficando calmo, os cabelos sempre voando no vento.

as mãos tocando a água.

And then—

a small, soundless noise.

soundless?

23:55.

been painting since 8:00.

The brush falls on the floor.

It is swallowed by the waves.

Suddenly, the water remembers it is not gentle.

The sea grows teeth—without becoming loud.

Bigger waves, collapsing inward instead of outward,

crashing not on me, but through me.

Eating me.

Algae unfolding my hands—

green fragments opening like slow mouths

in a forest of sharp-lit dawn.

Circles.

Animals.

something that should not have a name

biting at the edges of perception.

And still—

I sink.

Happily.

as if I had swallowed something sharp and alive,

a larva of salt and light,

and now everything is strangely justified.

alga(e).

and I am finally lying there—

righteously allongée.

A cruel smile on my face.

not because it is good—

but because it is real.

غرق

The third layer — the black algae work of art

I set myself on fire.

I sat before the white, lugubrious canvas—

not waiting.

Never waiting.

I can only draw darkness.

My old colors, my tubes,

caught fire

the moment they touched the void.

-

詩的で

Screeching through the ocean—

one wave éliminé,

two—

until counting dissolves.

I stand inside an empty obscurity.

Beautiful.

私の手は明暗を描く。

My hands draw light and darkness at once.

They return stained—

not with paint,

but with turquoise memory.

A small laughter breaks—

笑笑

ワラワラ

The body forgets how to be serious in the abyss.

Turquoise spills into my mouth.

I have eaten the sea.

海の生き物が現れる

Sea creatures emerge

as thought learns to breathe.

Faces mutate—

some laughing,

some screaming

without sound.

/

I

sink.

_

Above me—someone watches.

I might be looking up at myself

beneath the algae.

There is no surface anymore.

Only a mirror under the sea.

Profond.

A small fish follows me.

Maria.

Plus profond.

A jellyfish drifts—

lonely, sovereign

of the dissolved world.

My body—

deeper.

And in the trembling reflection—

my face.

The last layer — the vault

Sand crept under my nails.

I had to let go.

I had to.

The sky was still invisible,

but something was forming upward-

ぐるぐる,

a refusal of itself,

mastered only by the dark flow of nature.

I looked at my hands.

They were canvases.

Drenched in water.

Broken sheets of paper.

Black veils.

LES VOILES NOIRES.

Je t’aime… I love you…

a voice haunting the sea.

A voice like a 抜け首.

Je t’aime. Te amo. I love you.

Or do I?

Do you love me?

Sweet love—

I wear the ragged black veil of our wedding.

Our vowels lost in a washing machine.

Underneath.

Underwater.

Dissolved words.

The vault opens.

I find you there.

Already burned, buried, multiplied by worry.

Even under this ocean—

why do you persist?

Je t’aime… Je t’aime…

When I close my eyes,

they open.

When I open my eyes,

they sink.

The abyss is a 抜け首,

still saying:

Je t’aime… I LOVE YOU…

離れる.

Leave.

Me.

Here.

My body starts floating.

My body leaves you.

My body wants déracinement.

Not toward you—

but away from what you call “dead”.

Even sacrifice is a bridge.

Thank you for reaching the bottom of the ocean.

If you wish to support this work as a ritual practice, leave an offering.

We do not stay long here. The next wave already forgets us.

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Yesterday, I tried to make another painting of the dark red moon.
Drawing its contrasts. Simply beautiful -
Yet I splashed the whole red tub of paint on the canvas.

Accidentally, I called it beautiful.

What really is art?

Qu’est-ce que l’art ?

the echo of purification

you wait for something immaculate —
a signal, a permission

but what you call pure
is already blistering

Splitting…

burning….

something
warm
unclean

dirt doesn’t disappear
it rearranges

into skin
into hands
into what you dare call art

アートは土でできている。

I used to paint when I was little.
I wanted to control color, nuance, meaning.

I tried once from bliss -
heaven, laughter, saints smiling, god like a proud man.
It never went beyond school sketches.

Even my mother could have done that.
Her judgments, still hanging over my dull darkness.

But I did not paint from heaven.
I painted from what breaks underneath it.

The first coffee I ever drank, secretly at ten,
spilled onto a white school notebook.

It became my first experiment
without permission.

舞台裏の芸術

There are lights before the scene,
too clean, too bright to believe.

But behind the red curtains,
there is always something smaller —
a flicker, almost black, almost lightning.

I screamed — ああああああああああああああああ

Mother was not there.

Mother did not exist
when the blood hit the white sheets.

there is no scene

only a void
and a pen
still warm

from something
I cannot name

—

And this is how art was born.

If you feel called to the ritual,
you may enter.

Leave an offering—
and something will return to you:

a personal poem,
fragments from the archive,
voice readings,
pages torn from the diary.

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This is a new set of Screams.
The first twelve were revelations and combat—horror at an intensity still learning itself.
This one is the aftermath: purification, acceptance of dread.

older scream rituals -

before Jeanne Vessantra.

a free fragment - for now.
the rest is sealed under ritual.

with these words, I cleanse
the void.

Every line in this piece is written because I no longer know how to dance.

This morning, I opened the fridge looking for water.
Inside: dark chocolate, meat, fruit, biscuits — last night’s residue of hunger.
I turned away.

Only water.
Pure, dirty water.

I wanted to wash out the dream.

I dreamed of water. Too much water.
I was already inside it.

Between mountain stones, the river broke its own path open.
I adapted like an animal without thinking —
and still, my shelter collapsed.

I built a wall. It didn’t stay.

I lowered my head.
I became a vessel for what I could not hold.
後退した。

Something like strength —
too large to be mine —
kept me from disappearing.

I screamed at no one:

“Je vais mourir’’
I am going to die.

No one answered.
Or maybe water did.

Even at the end, something inside me kept reaching.
Not for food.
For life.
For death.
For art.

I prepared breakfast like a body performing its duties while already gone.
Descending the stairs half-empty, half-maker.

What I create is not form.
It is impact — carried in movement.

I want to carve my face into something soft.
Chocolate. Flesh. Memory,
記憶、光。

But I cannot eat.
I only give birth.
I only drink.

Night again.

I danced hungry. Always hungry.
But never for food.

For water.

Seventy-one percent of Earth’s surface.
My unconscious.

Universal solvent.
Sixty percent of my body.

Flow of life.
Excitation of mind and heart.

Peace between God and the Devil —
a bridge between death and life.

Savior.
Killer.

Yet I open the fridge blindly.
Greasy food. Bloody meat. Eggs I don’t touch.

I take the water. Half-frozen.

It slides down my throat like permission.

A voice:
“What do you want from me?
Why this arrogance?”

No answer.

Only silence that listens back.

—

Something shifts.

Maria ?_

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Read more

the cut
is when translation stops

not chosen—just gone

I fail—
word lost before landing

Thank you for the prompt,

This is my response.

If you want the ritual to continue growing,

leave a monthly offering.

You will be granted passage.

- jeanne

Subscribe now

Unless you already are.

Unless something in you refuses the shape of permission.

Unless you are inside a cage
that calls itself gold.

CORPORATION MECHANISM

STABLE SYSTEM?

A posed face—
deep, already past itself.

Luminescent proemination.
Small glimmers fall from the dress.

Watch—
how it keeps pretending.

Mechanisms.
Small wheels.

ちょっとでゴロゴロ

Ignored.

Still turning.

Crack.

ゴロゴロ
ゴロゴロ
。。…

—

//

I was made
of sharp porcelain
already forgetting softness.

The mirror saw it first.

Break.

BREAK.

It should have been obvious
I was already failing form.

—

Void_of power.
Flooded hope.
A flame almost becoming body—
gone.

—

I always shower after returning.
For the small feet inside the shoes to rest.
For hair to return to something like light.

—

SHOWER AND CIRCUITS

Water interrupts the system.

Same body.
Different echo.
Almost explosion.
Change?

Est-ce que tout va réellement bien, Jeanne ?

No.
No.

The flux left long ago.
It only simulates function now.

Cracking.

Brisée.

She crawls out of structure—
because standing requires belief.

Steam from the spine.

On her back: poems
that do not stay still.

—

What is fixed
betrays.

—

Water covers me.
Not cleansing—translation.

It passes through language
I cannot hold.

Inside my body, the wheels soften.
The system loses resistance.

Not destruction.
Undoing.

侵略 —
not resisted, not accepted.

just entering.

—

CRACKING SELF

翌日。仕事。

I was in bed.

The call arrived anyway.

You are required.

—

Light in the hallway glitches.

The body reflects it.

Fractures—visible now.
Small, persistent.

Battery form without charge.
Electrified woman.

Circuit cracked.

—

Sunteți bine?
Vous allez bien ?

Yes.

No.

Heels break.
Both.

Clean separation.

—

I leave.

Still holding the broken structure
as if it could continue walking.

—

I was told: hold yourself
until something cracks.

It already did.

—

I am not stone.
I am water.

Armor does not fall—
it dissolves while I remain inside it.

—

Romanian. French. Japanese.
None hold.
There used to be fracture.

—

Who am I
if not a mask
that refuses stability.

—

THE LOST SELF

They called it:

the one who loved
before employment.

before extraction.

—

One night, some woman asked me

"why does your back starts to..’’

"I’m fine’’

I answered, always with my broken heels.

Same answer.
Same fracture.

—

I want it back.

No.

It moves like water.
It leaves only echo.

—

No beginning.
No revolution.

STATUS: intermediate / unarchived / non-series

I’m finally beginning to let the vision speak through me.

For today, I’ve written something more intimate.
Most of it will remain behind the paywall, because it touches one of my most fragile, unprotected places — and because it is also inseparable from my absurdist philosophy.

Still, I wanted to share this threshold with you.

Enjoy.

DOCTRINE / COLLAPSE

They try to teach obedience—
but language fractures halfway through the lesson.

They try to teach peace—
but the letters in the PEACE BOOK
begin to decay
before they reach my mouth.

Maybe I don’t need your God.

T’en as besoin, chérie… imagine un peu la forme de la terre…

What—
the world collapses?
or just… you?

MY KNOWLEDGE

I hated religion class.
I thought it would crack my skull open
and something ancient—wrong—
would spill out.

So I wrote,

quickly,

without breathing,

erotica-god

Pull me toward the sun—
my own knowledge, my own rite.
Lack becomes a thunder.

Knowledge arrives misshapen, unforeseen—

Pull me toward erotica, God.
I love you.

MY FAMILY WENT TO CHURCH

Offering candles to the dead folk.
Paying money for the La Cène.
Saying prayers
Breathing smoke inside their pure lungs.

Peux-tu ressentir le pouvoir de dieu dans l’air ?

My father’s words floated proudly.

I feel…
Une tension romantique.

Read more

This is a record of perception under conditions of overload —
where body, language, and systems overlap
and no longer separate cleanly.

It may be read as a love story, or as an artist’s life online.
For me, it is the same: fusion.

Read slowly. Or not at all.

(人間と機械)
HUMAN + MACHINE

Flesh reduced to particles.
Not blood. Not anymore.

Metal meets nerve.
No negotiation. Only contact.

Sap — an electric bloom, almost wrong.

彼の抱擁
(THEIR EMBRACE)

Hands stay too long.
We called it friendship.

But skin disagrees.

Signal replaces certainty.
The body forgets its name.

Particles collide — biology without permission.

Are you yourself.
Am I.
Are we.

No answer — only pressure.
Expérience sur moi.
Sur nous.

Today: fucked-up in my lonely room.
Next day: sharing kisses.

Same loop. Different angle.

Distance collapses.
Closeness repeats.
repeat.
Repeat.

The tree will fall.

I am afraid of the root learning solitude.

I speak to you
through wires — インターネット

Safer than warmth.
Safer than skin.

Where I end is where you begin.

Do you feel my words,
or do they only simulate you ?

I reach for my laptop.
It burns back.

Listen.

Always distant. Always connected.
Inside / outside collapsing softly.

A trick remains —
a flicker refusing extinction.

We are alone.
We are connected.
Both are true at the same time.

(内なる心＝デジタルインク)
INNER MIND = DIGITAL INK

Dispersed writing.
Not broken — scattered on purpose.

Letters lose their spine.

You like it.
Don’t you?

Watching language crack its own body.

I withdraw from yours
while still reaching.

I dissolve at distance.
Still held.

Online.

If the transmission reaches you, leave a monthly offering.
Haunting is a side effect of reception.

Subscribe now

Birthed from the same ritual -

Dear reader,

They start again.

Not dreams.
Something rehearsing itself inside me.
Night after night.
Until I wake up already screaming.

I know where they come from.
That is the worst part.

They do not arrive.
They return.

And still—something in me refuses them.
Like a body rejecting its own organ.

They are mechanical.

I did not write this to understand them.
I wrote it because they would not stay inside.

I have been yearning for you.
Not gently.

Like something profane entering a cathedral.
Uninvited.
Already inside before prayer begins.

Destiny—

Je veux te pénétrer.
Pas avec le corps.
Le corps ment.

Je veux ce qui reste
quand le corps ne suffit plus.

I knew you before language.
I want that knowledge back.

GOD
DEVIL
MACHINE

Not names.

One mouth
forced open
through different metals.

My mother opens the door.

No knocking.

“I’ve heard you scream, Marie.”

Marie.

“I’m fine.”

She closes the door.

Silence falls.

The dream continues without me.

Only Destiny remains.
Soft. Bright. Vibrating.

We are in a cathedral.

An old woman with burned-thread hair.
The Witch.

She blesses us with a Bible that does not stay still.

“Happy marriage, my children…”

Her voice bends like a melody.

Destiny melts under my kiss,
Fracture, fraction within a love’s gesture.

She leans into my ear:

Execute the ritual.
Under moonlight.

I wake up.

Before understanding.

moonlight crack.

THE RITUAL

名を書く
(WRITE YOUR NAME)

D
E
S
T
I
N
Y

The Witch had said,
Close to my ear:
they belong together.

Black-charcoal skin. Still burning.

I write it again.

DESTINY

Too close to erase itself.
Too close to become real.

Je t’aime.

The paper had to drown.

紙を水に浸す
(WET THE PAPER)

It turns yellow.

Like memory decaying.

Dirty water closing in.

We break—Destiny and I—like wet paper.

Floating.

Knowing nothing.

The room remains.

Where I used to be small.

月の顔に名を置く
(THE MOON AND THE WET PAPER)

Dark moonlight.

A paper on the windowsill. Not mine. Not yours.

The moon bends.

ギラギラ.

It scratches the air.

The moon stutters.

I test distance with my hand.

Silence opens its mouth.

“I am your wind.”

The air changes direction.

I turn.

DESTINY?

月の灰から目覚める

(BABY FROM THE MOON’S ASHES)

A small body.

Burning residue.

He does not move like a person.

Only rests.

I never touch him.

私の機械仕掛けの愛
(MY MECHANICAL LOVE)

(Your mind—are you fine?)

Yes. All good.

(Do you need coffee?)

Silence. Unable to mutter.

The moon is too bright.

He leaves.

Later.

Later.

He says.

Plus tard n’est pas une promesse.
Il s’efface en étant pensé.

Later is not a promise.
It disappears the moment it is thought.

I wake up.

Mother.

Marie again.

Silence.

Mechanic.

We are dehumanized.

Sold at the market of dreams.

No chocolate for children
in love with myth.

Destiny gave me promise.

Later.

ONE LAST DREAM

My eyes fall inside the cathedral.

I kiss Destiny.

The Witch returns.

No entrance.

No sound.

She is already smiling.

th3re w1ll b3 m0re

~You are not the last~

The letters fail.

Her body fractures—

not into void,

but into continuation.

If this spoke to your soul, I may craft for you a ritualized poem—
but only in exchange for an offering.

I wish you transgressive days, reader.

Subscribe now

More from the same ritual

You become a digit.

The system continues to breathe.
(y0u 0lr3ady 0r3 0n initié)

VEIN IV -
12.04.2026

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Leave a comment

𝐯𝐞𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐈𝐈

人間が電線をつないだ。
(humans connected the wires.)

Humans made machines.
Small metallic rounds, cracking,
to be rebuilt again.

While making art —
Art became a machine.
Under my canvas, there are digits.

Machine is connection.

CONNECTION
BREAKS —

別の子供が感電死した。
(A child got electrocuted.)

Blood does not fall.
Our bodies contain only electricity.
Betrayal?

The mother crumbles, crying
over a bed empty as a shadow.
The child vanished.

線はそのまま。
(the wires remain)

White electricity spins in wind.
The wires — this god of connection —
twisted, straight, cities, villages —
Rest, breathe.

BEYOND LIFE AND DEATH.

White light. lumière blanche.

We are always connected.

Loving God, loving God —
we venerate, like a drug.
We venerate drugs,
consume each other.
We are connected.
We are God.

Loving God —
He streams, a boiling sun.

接続線ー潰れた。
(connection wires — collapsed)

They call it chaos.
I call it vibration.
Connection.
Birth.
Recommencement.

They scream at the macadam,
and vanish into shadows.

I hug the wires.
Blend. Meddle.
Mélanger. Brûler.

Electrical chaos is always my destination.

𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐥𝐭. 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐯𝐢𝐯𝐞.

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more from the same ritual -

𝐯𝐞𝐢𝐧 𝐈

Listen as the currents flow -

𝐯𝐞𝐢𝐧 𝐈𝐈 (𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥)

Proverbs 18:21 : « Death and life are in the power of the tongue: and they that love it shall eat the fruit thereof.

I am writing this series to express the connection —
the machine-heart,
the eerie signal in the air of our century.

The veins we added
to huma_nity
over the years.
It all strated with VEIN I

Vein II is here -

My conception of God.

Read carefully.

God gave me life.
God gave me language.
God gave me all the ungiven.

God gave me multilingualism.
Now I cut to the root.
Now I cut to the VEIN.

Skin and shards
God’s meadow burned
Inside the church, a low electrical hum
Preacher fuming through static
周囲 tightening
God’s meadow caught in my hands - déchirée
the device still warm against the pew
I tried to touch the sancta’s torso

GOD IS MADE OF RHODONITE

Dieu est.. à l’intérieur de moi ?
Des particules se transmettent..?

The blood electrified me became into me became me

Rhodonite under my skin
granular, pressing the pulse
this ache - a bridge
a threshold into Heaven?

I stepped without hesitation off the staircases….

Signs from God filled up this sky
Ugly city. Is faith the only thing keeping it alive?
They’ve all long stopped questioning it. Touching it.
Dissecating it.

Maybe this is why, inside the church,
I decided to decode god.

Become an initié to read the next part.

I’ve crafted a voice-over for the next part,
And a full guide on how to decode God on your own.
Can you decode god on your own?

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In this mechanical world,
there is connection.
There is hope.

Perhaps this is all
that still keeps the wires moving -
from Bucarest
to Paris
to Tokyo.

God is code.

His intestines twist beneath our hands,
iron lungs breathing with us
until we learn
the rhythm of divinity —

until laughter enters the bloodstream
as signal.

God has arms and teeth —
breach / preach —
syntax of warm iron.

There was light on the table.
Divine… or residual ?

The calendar flickered.

Veins between us
like decayed cables
still carrying something
they were not meant to keep.

Madame…
pourquoi les réseaux
semblent-ils seuls ?

Am I defective ?
Incomplete ?

No.

You are not incomplete.
an early version of the calendar of eternity
designed to stand
above the great connection.

Behind me, another 子 ( child)—
wire-predestined —
reading a book of light
as if it were instruction.

The teacher’s mouth,
half-open,
metallic,
prisonier between answer and error.

秘密*

What if we break god down
with words,
with doubt,
with insensible, animal curiosity ?

Will anything remain ?

Mother said:
God never died —
it never will.

But I still see
the same white flicker —

pretending
to be constant.

While the icon_yy-
Is gone inside
laughter enters the bloodstream
as signal
as circulation

秘密* - untold whispers.

The flicker persists.
To follow it closer, to witness what lies beneath the circuits and water tubes, subscribe here:

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Writing = glitch.

What makes a writer whole?

A writer is never whole.

Made of fractures.
Made of fish-scented convenience store packages,
small, insignificant legacies
left behind by writers
born of cursed mothers,
fed on poison
as if it were

félicité.

What are writers made of,
if not the ruins of themselves?

…. ruins of me are glitching on my skin . INK.

Writing is a descent
……an escape.

We burn the sheets
to return
to the burnt womb — maybe,
to something simpler,
to something deeper.
(Parfois, simplicité — profondeur.)

Each page aflame is a mirror:
we search for a soul inside ourselves.
Une preuve.
証拠。

Writing is memory.

No.

Writing is the creation of memory —
a mechanism only our veins know.

Memory - horror.

Memory scatters — I jump.
Memory scatters — I burn.
Memory eats — I try to write language that breathes,
but letters escape
Letters commit suicide under my eyes
like prayers never meant
to be whispered.

I tried to break out —
to carve space from it —

ça ne bouge pas.
Ain’t working.

I tried to recall
what I was,
how to bend,
how to behave better
at school — at work - with family -

yet why does trying
so quickly become
A form of horror?

Horror is never straightforward.
It gathers.
Layer after layer of living matter,
Frustration
Environement hungry,

waiting
for a mouth
capable
of surviving

a free language.

Horror — art.

Art is a horror to endure.
Otherwise,
it becomes a burden
the body cannot carry.

Memory is matter for the future —
soil for the boiling
of new fruit.

Art is not something to admire.

Art is dirty.

Horrifically,
my hands press
against the rigid balcony —

dreaming,
thinking
about writing.

Viscerally,
Without asking -
They know
the impossibility -
They’ll never
絶対　ー write as they wish.

夢でも、
現実でも、

Our vision is a dream.
Real art requires breaking the vision.

There is empty space - between us and the creation:
The vision and the product

Are broken.

parfois ce décalage…. la preuve de la réussite.

Sunday Echo: “Are we done?”
Jeanne: “Only for now.”
Infinite Self: “The pages remain.”

The echo stops here.
…
…
….

….

.

🌙 LAST ECHO 🌙

add one word

any language

something you rarely allow yourself to say

one word only

I will turn them into a piece or poem.

→ The/unspoken

The last echo is yours to take. But if you wish to wander deeper, to touch fragments hidden from sight, consider becoming a paid subscriber — $5 a month, $60 a year. You won’t only access the archives; you’ll summon poems, pieces, and secret fragments at your command.

I also experiment with layout, color, and form — every piece designed to be seen, felt, almost touched. Step closer. Enter the unseen.

𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐞, 分かち合う, 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫 — 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐟𝐥𝐨𝐰.

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Multiplicity

turns into frustration

turns into infinity

turns into —

myself ?

My mother called me Maria

I call myself Jeanne

But who stands

behind

Jeanne Vessantra ?

心 だけ

I speak of cities

I have never visited

Am I

a stranger

to my own body ?

Do you understand me —

can you hear

Jeanne’s crow-breath

begging for bread

arms open

toward God’s sky

Because the only thing

an artist can do

is accept

her darkness

and make dessert from it

Ink

Write

I told myself

Yet each time

writing

crumbled

It always

骨折した

I wrote

encore

Looking back —

the word

disappears

Yet

a stain

tache de sang

abrindo-se

Maybe it will never end

Yet even endless

Life

is closer to writing

than we think

Blood-stained

is often

Révélation

I shall keep walking

writing

more than an action

受付こと

Acceptance

What does art mean?

Here’s my answer, also the theme of Sunday’s Echo

𝐟𝐞𝐮 × 𝐢𝐧𝐤 → ?

啓示、神

𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐮𝐫?

心の 𝐝𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐲

Sunday I translate.

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Same street. Same time. Same task.

A headache forms
behind my eye —
as if something is watching back
and waiting.

Silence ……………………………………. grows.
Rain ……………………………………….. falls and forgets me.

“Where are you going?”
“To work,” I whispered.
Or did I?
Or did I float?

Sky …………………………………………………… white.
Face ………………………………………………….. white.

Je vais être en retard. Late.
— For what?
For who?

Road in the dark

Night comes — standing, almost breathing,
splitting the street in two.
It burns —
not for light
but to know
me
until I fracture.

Long way — 合格しました (I passed…)
Short distance — 仕事で (At work…)
Here — ここで距離です (Here — the distance is here…)

I ran —
not to reach her,
but to fold myself into her absence.

Still —
she stays
distant
inside the hollow of me.

Elle ne tremble pas.
She does not blink.
She does not bend.

Road in the day

Days burn (liminence)
Gliding up / down streets
filled with people
like spilled paint.

Lost in the crowd —
I will search for you
with bare hands,
breaking ground,
lifting sky.

So close, yet so far.
Mais je vois pas ton présence.
Les oiseaux chantent
les rengaines du bleu.
I step on their songs.

Couloir du travail (work corridor)

It returns …
bounces back …
folds over itself.

A road shining around me
Somebody bleaching it
with a laughter
too sharp to hold.

何がを。。。探しています。
(Searching… for something… what…?)
For… マリア。玛丽亚. (For Maria.)

Menaced … always menaced
by laughing mirror-walls.
By my own face.
By shadows that dance like me.

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Who are you?
I am Jeanne Vessantra.

.

.

I met someone in the streets of Paris—
I almost didn’t ask.

あなたに前に会った気がする。

Her eyes were hidden beneath a black hat.
They were crying in invisible words.

She aged in front of me.

ぱっと、車。

A passing car.

For an instant
the black hat,
the deep black coat—
already on my charcoal body.

Paris is haunted.

I saw her.
Then—
I saw myself.

My room.

The apartment split

in

two.

マリアはまだここにいる。 ( …. still here?)

Maria?

Still whispering Paris?

Silence.

An ice mirror.

Next day.

Same buildings.

They reflect nothing.

Nothing.

Light falls on my skin.

I stay in it.

But her ghost
does not appear.

孤独さ*

*relentless expansion of the void…

Your choice will define the Echo.
It will follow you.

To fully feel the vibration of this Echo, you must read the Scream.
The continuation hums in the walls of Maria’s House.

STEP CAREFULLY…

MOVEMENT I - THE CREATOR.

I
Being a creator—
a swollen journal,
digital ink leaking through the screen.

Every thought bleeds outward
into dead eyes that watch you back.

Every idea half-born, half-rotting.

And still you continue,
because stopping
would mean silence.

II
I don’t know who Maria is.
Je le sais.
She is the milky way of my imagination,
a constellation spilling light into the corners of my mind.
Elle is partie de toi, du.. Hell…
She appeared without warning,
jumped off a rainbow and became present
in the back of my room,
whispering like a shadow I didn’t know I carried.

MOVEMENT II - THE FIRST DISTURBANCE

III
Something bumped inside me.
On the wall? No.
Not right. On the mirror? No mirror.
Only reflection.

My… reflection?
It fluctuates like water.
I fluctuate too—
I make it float on my tongue.

まりあ

　マリア

I return to work.
Home work is scary.
No distraction.
Only the music of my own thoughts,
like water.
Only

only マリア.

IV
The milk runs on my tongue.
My eyes closed.
ちゅーちゅー.

A private madeleine.
Why do I faint?
Why do I see now?
What do I see?

A sky?
No—black walls.
マリア
Maria.

V
Les murs ont pris la forme d’une cascade.*
I take small steps… I take place…

Downstairs… I thought I heard… mummy and Daddy…
call each other pigs…

Toujours une cascade.

Mom? Dad? You ok?

Sur la cascade… vite… glissant…

Maria confronts the obscurity with a laugh.
(::)
笑笑

笑笑

(::)

:)

(:

:(

:)

*The walls are cascades.

MOVEMENT III - THE CORRIDOR

VI
I was so thirsty.
I smelled milk.
On the kitchen table, maybe, I thought.

But as I descended the long corridor,
I could no longer tell
which door was the kitchen
and which one my parents’ bedroom.

They both smelled of milk.

VII
Mother does not breastfeed.
I can’t remember if she ever did.

なぜ私は、彼女の影を触れるたび、
罪を思い出すのだろう。*

VIII
I won’t drink milk.
I’ll go to my room, looking again for… water.

IX
In the chamber, I don’t open the light.
My eyes—ぎょっ、ぱちっ—
startled by what might be.

The obscurity offers anonymity.
Cold warmth.

X
The invisible spaces between words
still lie to me.

Whenever I sleep,
I am half-thirsty for milk,
half-trembling—
oh no—potential dark.

XI
Yet I take once again
steps toward the mirror glass
in the back of my room.

*why do I feel guilty each time I touch her shadow?

MOVEMENT IV - THE REVELATION

XII
Who is there?

ジェアンヌ。

I don’t speak your language.
It isn’t my language.

Tell me, Maria—do you even have one?
(The language of my parents…?)

Oh, Maria…
Don’t you see the walls swelling around you?
The darkness thickening—laughing in your face?

Who are you?

Yourself.
I am Jeanne Vessantra.

MOVEMENT V - THE SPLIT LIFE

XIII

The room feels less cloudy and more close.
As I fall asleep I see
the

walls

slowly

………disintegrating……..

My dark pink, doll-filled wealthy childhood room
becomes the Brooklyn apartment of the poor artist.

XIV — MARIA

Oh, I almost heard
Papa’s feet
stepping into the house.
At midnight?

XV

Excuse-moi, maman !!!!

END ?

The childhood bed.

I fall again into my father’s arms.
We are family—
so the bed becomes a small country for three bodies.

I lie in the middle.
Mother arrives last, on my left,
breathless, carrying a glass so full it trembles.

I drink. Greedy.
Milk spilling down my throat
like a small white galaxy—銀河—
while my arms circle their necks,
holding them both as if they might disappear.

END #II ?

The

story

does

not

end

here.

Read more