There are things that hurt the soul when memory makes them resurface. Every time we think of them,
the throat is knotted. When we say them, it is even worse because they engender little by little, if we look for
share them with those who listen to them, who raise their faces, who tend their faces, who attend to what
What are we going to say, a shame, or at least, a shame that redoubles them. They shake a little
lips. The voice breaks. She stopped talking. But then I start writing. because you can write
what one is no longer in a condition to say. You can write even when crying. What I do not know
can do when writing, when one is writing, is to sing.