Is it true that genius only comes from tirelessly rubbing the magic lamp, that persistence and hard work form the soil for the emergence of something unique ?
Is our daily life enough to bring out a hint of wonder ? Is it true that there are many called and few chosen ?
What is these mathematics of progress made of ? What is the point of this divine game that consists of getting so dizzy that you get drunk in the drizzle of your sweat ?
Can one really meet God on one’s way, fall off one’s horse, leave one’s loved ones unconcerned about their distress ?
Who said you could be reborn as a mouse or a shooting star ? Who created these compartmentalized truths and then knowingly hid them from our consciousness ?
The beauty of our quests, the dramas surrounding all these rumors, as many axioms as lies ?
Is there only the body to call us to order, even if it dies ? Is this how answers come when we are about to venture into the fog before our eyes ?
