In the waiting room, no one is coughing. No one is speaking. The phones are turned off. Instead, we read. Aragon, Lautréamont, Pessoa, Plath, Bobin, Prévert… When we are called. A door opens onto a blue square. Four blue walls. An orange carpet. A half-moon desk. Behind, a man. At least a head. His brown face seems to float on his night suit.
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The table seems to have grown. Two mushroom-shaped lamps emit yellow light. Not a sound. We read on a small sign:
“Silence is conducive to the germination of the poem. »
A painting, a reproduction of Matisse, catches our eye.
-I'm going to write now, you do what you want but you don't look at me.
Five minutes pass. The man scans his sheet and hands it to us. A handwritten page. Inuit arabesques.
The doctor is a poet. He has just finished one of his famous minute poems in the “Déversoir”, an ephemeral office that he opened…
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