I like to look at the small movements that create abysses in everyday life—those that are sometimes buried and flattened. At the shadows and reflections that duplicate the world, creating not a copy but an Other. At the repeated scenes that, through repetition, reveal fissures—not to be patched, but assumed as part of what they are. But I also like to look at the unexpected scenes that explode the moment, challenging like a volcano, urgent to create new shapes with its ashes.

Looking at the world and the things of the world reminds me of René Char in Fureur et mystère, saying that "the poem is the realized love of desire remaining desire." Because poems sketched by the world instigate a bond that takes us beyond ourselves while they remain, somehow, always unreachable and elusive.

And if what the world says goes beyond what is necessary and demanded, I also remember Georges Bataille in La Part Maudite, saying that what life seeks is not just to survive or reproduce existence, but to escape the meticulous control of production systems that attempt to capture and appropriate all remnants for their own use. And, I would add, any and every desire.