L'homme vit d'amour effréné et de prévisions exactes.
Les flammes de notre foi nous donnent l'échelle de la nuit.
L'amour, cette absence de mémoire, ne retient de nous que notre éternité.
On ne peut pas être heureux à tort ; on ne peut pas avoir tort d'être heureux.
On désespère des autres pour ne pas trop espérer de soi.
Les anges révoltés volent en rangs.
Toute pensée efface un rêve.
© 2026 My French LLC
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