(24) The abracadabrant story of the Moon Child

A thought lost within a hollow, bare tree. Beneath the cortex, eyes out of sight, the Moon Child searches in vain for an author. Diverted, beyond the unfolding loins, small trembling branches spread, without restraint, their blind sap within their lifted bark. The child remembers the stories which, far away, roll on and never cease to unfold…
Slightly seized by vertigo, in a full confusion of words, Don Carotte tries, somewhat in vain, to remember.

Notebook of Don Carotte
What kind of reason could there be for not persuading oneself of the good star of our readers… she who begins to dream of what might be.
What could she hope to obtain that would be agreeable?
From all the mixtures of judgments concerning me, the fact that someone might replace the deep eclipse of my doubts would allow the child… to be reasonably admired.
Perhaps… the time in which… how to say… executing a backward leap would no doubt lead, and continually, toward timid mornings. The erasure of his face, from afar, suits him… all the more so as the clown laughs… dances… the actor sings, and he rises back toward the sky, when the blue has been broken in the midst of silence. The slow erosion of the mountain spreads like a burning star…
As for his health, my educated ears, well-trained, speak of lucid animals, yet in a state of intoxication. Some truth, from time to time, in turn, settles upon my hand and, in every respect, I receive it. No matter where, in nature or in a book, unstable flocks of shepherds take shape! They never cease to change… Even though, frankly, they think they are one or the other… not the kind to do the same thing.
Most of them think, in the midst of these blind words, to constrain them to yield, without effort, from the hollow of their neck, the liveliness of my voice…
Lightly flayed, impossible to retain, a nimble thought loses itself in a hollow, bare tree. A great number of smiles take refuge beneath the bark of the tree. Another thought recognizes its author. Its closed eyes beat in vain. Not the slightest light. In their wandering pupils, the tree trembles in vain. It unfolds its branches, sways its loins. Small raised columns, at times of clashes of secret thoughts, rise without restraint into the twilight.