It happened slowly
an approach
a rustle of fabric
in the soundtrack
a dot of glue
on the image
and then the confused feeling
that something is off,
a counter-melody,
a misstep in time.

I was three, maybe,
the film fraying
the movie skipping
and me splitting
in the rip
and fall.

The dark staircase
the gray dust
on the black steps
the black steps
the gray dust
the cobweb
like a sail
on the stairs
waiting for the wind
as I wait...

It came softly
a rustle of fabric
a quiver of an idea
a shadow in the mirror
that I followed
and the film resumed.

From the depths of my mirror
I look at the screen
and put on a brave face
I give them the illusion
I pretend
to follow the measure

Laurent Chaineux  Schenmetzler