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Ce présentateur de télé est bien en chair, généreux, et dans une grosse voix, il fait part au peuple de la RDC – population des …
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Le poème de Pessoa, Monsieur Personne, en portugais. Sauf qu’il est devenu quelqu’un, le plus grand des poètes lusophones. Ne m’en veux pas, Fernando. J’ai …
Cats don’t talk
Sitted at my desk, some warmth on my laps.
I have a cat mummy/mother on my laps, and three suckling kitties, my ears are amplified thanks to the headphones, I record them, closer, I get in their cocoon. The fur isolates and renders a sound of intimity, a reduced space/cubbyhole, but filled with warmth. I can’t move, worried not to let this furry imbroglio fall, and to interrupt the meal. Also, they take me to another world, delicate, hushed and muffled, a fur smell that isn’t unpleasant. I can hear a quick purring, high-pitched but regular, that mixes up with the ones of the two other feline brothers. Lower, the mother’s purring, she’s the one that has no white on her fur. I can even hear breathing, the sound of the tongue that cleans the babies’ fur. And the sound of suckling, of the pan of the suckling one, happy. I felt I belonged to them, only an instant. On the soothing rhythm of maternal purring. A real relaxation session.