We could have said woolly hair, but in the case of de Saint “Serv-nain”, it was more like short hair. Eureka! “j’ai trouvé”, which I translate for bimbos as “silly” as a thong string. Well, move along, there’s nothing to see in the courtyard of the Musée des Archives Nationales in Paris, and yet there’s so much to read. When I write, I weigh my words, but when I see this, words weigh me down. Here, then, is the flat dressmaker par excellence, who judges beauty in the same way that a tic-tac-toe stumbled upon Olympus would judge the beauty of a goddess’s ass.

A seam close to the poems of the slums of Schaerbeek and Saint-Josse in Bruxelle, a seam cast in magnetic curses in the midst of the labor and workers of the text. A siren in the distance wakes me up with a shrill sound; it’s the Paris traffic jams that you can make out in the distance, and which come like warning shots to finish me off from the displeasure of the obstacle course to get here and see a show that isn’t one.

Here’s a big, bold gastropod soaring brightly through the dark night of success, singing the Brabant, fierce as a toothless rabid dog and cunning enough to promote its couture style at Paris Fashion Week. Un comble!