In transit

No gas. No water. No lighting. No regrets. When my wooden shack goes up in flames, I will take what I need. My bicycle, but also the rattling of the poplars and the swallows that change into bats at night. I bury three bottles of wine for later, in case I want to look at the river flowing in the wrong direction again. Maybe the fox that eats out of my hand by now wants to come along. I haven’t seen him for a while though. I throw my paintbrushes into the fire. What is the use of working on a landscape that is already finished? I put my shirts in a plastic bag. I wear the sun in my skin.

Text © Pascal Panis