For he'd hear dim dissonances and roars coming from the streets of the city burning down in the ancient memories he cherished the most, he could claim the lazy church did not dare to wake up anyone in the area.

Midnight is here and the collective consciousness is already in bed. 1 AM and a few more dizzy heads disappear under suffocating yet comforting pillows. 2 AM and you can still hear the prodigious drunken souls going home to their family or pets or solitude which in many ways they have tried to forget while reading their fate in the bottom of a wine glass and numerous tequila shots.


"What a mistake this is! Let the world know that the night tells us the naked truth that the day merely helped us to unravel from our daily life constraints. We exhale dried powder mud our illusions drip-feed on, intoxicating our exhausted brains. We scream EURÊKA under an artificial sun entrapped in bulbs in pubs and a crown-shaped neon light hung above our skull. With shame and guilt I wonder if somewhere somehow someone feels the same way I do at this very same time...”

He got it! To please his heart and believe in no coincidences, he chose to unmask his own language, to squeeze it, to twist it and to cut it into pieces to spray them damn pieces turned into dust ; blowing on open palms up to the starry ceilings and reflections he dreams of the human kind and himself. Let him write and let him howl to the old religious building which doors are shut.


"Set your teeth free and run on tiptoe at full speed like a holy orphan creature – THE POET! – they say that hates us all. Let the animal go wild and shove its grunts and words-to-be in the chest of Time. Soak in deep until the nerves ache. Reach the spine and grab the root of knowledge. Trace back the miracle of the DNA discovery with your claws – the head, the body and the tail & the endless question of origins and creation. Oh set them free! Please! I pray to the silent echoes of the mute church bells! Have a little taste of madness with me tonight."



3 AM. The young man thinks of another man from another time – a fallen Dharma Bum.

4 AM. He lights a last cigarette, sobbing.


5 AM. The sun shows up behind the church as he climbs the stairs of the park facing his place.



6 AM. A poem is born within his heart. The city awakes and the young man faints. His body lies on the humid floor of his apartment. His head swimming in his foam and snot, making him look like a saint.


About the author 

Jean-Marie Trichot holds a bachelors degree in French Literature and a masters degree in English Linguistics, Literature and Civilization. He is French, but can't help writing in English. Jean-Marie has always been fond of "the study of language" and believes that what he writes the most about is the way that we communicate with ourselves and the world with words aiming at the heart of Life. Follow Jean-Marie's blog here and read more of his work. Also, keep up with his life on instagram