Clôture de l'amour

And then it stops. And it listens again. And it's silence. The body waiting. It breathes. It's been breathing all along, that's for sure. But it waits. Audrey Bonnet's body knows like no other how to create silence. To say eh alors? To suddenly look super-active in total immobility. Almost stupid. Like a village idiot. I'm here. I'm filling your space with my silence. I'm waiting.
And I start again. The words are round. Flat. Words are flat and thorny. Sometimes totally abandoned before her because doubt is in the meaning. Doubt takes over meaning. Meaning is questioned in front of the mouth like dead fish whose freshness is looked into the eye.
Are you alive sense? What's your back? Where's your front? Hello??? Where do you think it starts? Where does it go? That's what Audrey Bonnet's game is all about: incredulity. A dismay. A listening that listens to the raw, the direct, the material, the not funny and says: ah bon? Is it? And it starts all over again, in the manner of the immobile fighter Audrey Bonnet. It starts all over again, catching up with the direct, raw, material, metallic, not-fun words of the past, grasping them and looking at them like dead fish to see if there's still life in them, if love (the closure of love) is indeed dead.