Leng Tch’e
All angelic dancers are dead. Maria Schneider is dead. Marlon Brando is dead. All waltzes are therefore crippled. Helno is dead; he sang to the most sorrowful waltz ever. C’est un bien triste un bien triste sort. My husband is dead. I watched pigeons nestling against one another, against hospital window panes, tucking their little heads into their soft, puffy bodies. Tarararaararararara, tarararaararararara, tarararaararararara, C’est un bien triste un bien triste sort. Helno died, the waltz has remained. My husband has died, I’ve decided not to brush my teeth nor wash myself ever again. We made love, for a long time, we occupied a huge portion of the night with our bodies, then fell asleep, I dreamt about a carousel, I woke up, it was May at the end of March, sunspots on the w
