Only the melancholic contemplates time and hunts there without end. Only he constantly sees everywhere the trace of the wonderful lost : a cat’s fur, the smell of his lover’s handkerchief, the red shoes of the virgin, the trace of all kinds of enjoyment that were possible to his mortal body in this world.

Absolute and arbitrary precariousness of desire since its emergence depends on almost nothing, the smell of a sheet, the unveiling of the shoulders in the neckline of a dress, the hem of an ultra-short skirt that barely covers the belly and buttocks until the birth of the thighs, a burst of light on the bones of the bent knees, the roundness of a breast protruding under the fabric of a worn black top, a mole on the corner of a lip, of chance therefore that are not and give an unknown beauty whose singularity produces disproportionate effects on the burning of bodies up to double their enjoyment.