le journal

the penguins

It was on Friday. When the penguins were going into the 609. I mean, it was really astonishing how all of us looked like penguins only by the fact that the light was off. However, we were silent penguins. I don’t know why I thought about penguins, perhaps because of this spicy shadow in the room which forced us to walk groping around the smell of the others.
When you are groping around in the dark, you look really clumsy as much as a penguin hearing the sun on his iceberg: white and slippery like the most important painting of Malévitch.
Penguins, for me, taste really stupid. During this delicious afternoon, I felt dumb like a landscape. We were all on the same iceberg or on the same burned-with-oil train, waiting for the next bang from an acid killer whale, and then falling in his shrill mouth.
I heard a movement. From one foot to the other. First, all the penguins synchronized like the smells in a candy-shop and then more and more drawing our own partition and then back together like the gently sounds of the barock music.
Whenever I think of penguins, I see a lot of penguins, not one, not two but a multitude of penguins. All the same, with the same mind. Penguins smell black but also white; white like the scent of the text on the wall, like the sound of the lights, like our dull ideas.
Anyway, I like penguins, especially because of their feathers. Usually, their feathers are yellow like the myrrh. All the penguins taste a different kind of myrrh like the stupidities that we told to this prickly presenter.
We had a taste of television culture, our television culture? Ridiculous. Absurd. Rough. Roaring. We saw a bad quality perfume, sexy like Axe.

That's it.

Touching peace and quiet, incense in our mind.
Going out of the room
Crying like a sweet skin: Am I a Penguin?

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