Monsieur, you are staid, professional, solid enough; quiet, muted.
Yet you are a wild man.
When you strip your clothes, the frenzy begins. How can such passion hide under a veneer smooth as the pin stripes in a suit?
I remember, and am awakening. Erotic energy rises like smoldering bush fire. In your absence.
For you are not here, only there.
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
An impressionistic response to Truffaut’s, The 400 Blows 1959
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