Suddenly, I could hear the mixed voices around me. Most of them were neutral. They called me back to work and live like the others. I ignored them all. The loudest voice was a scream for a struggle. I grabbed it. Then the softest melted my heart with the most irresistible sweetness. It led me to watch The Artist in a cinema and let my weak body soak in the romance of dramas.
The Artist was a silent yet explosive pill, a drug. The greatest feeling coming from the slowest digestion of The Artist was an orgasm. I felt I needed it and I needed more. It was as though the burden of my life was temporarily forgotten and the lightness lifted me off the ground. Only when indulging myself in the real beauty of an incorporeal and intangible image, I felt alive.