Don't hang around too long in the rain
Writing is the only truth. To be vertical. To sow the bitter germ.
To find the sound that will make take off again. Inspiration runs like a cloud.
Fast and feeling no remorse. The despair of writing becomes crystal.
Writing. Pagan god, help your servant. Give me the many-coloured bird, the one that help to blow the white page.
My flag of love.
I’m not a guy of the syntax, I’m a guy of the syncope, of the ultimate disruption.
I don’t give a damn of the verb and its complement.
Don’t try to show off with the words.
They just need love.
They give a lot of happiness, those words.
Every evening Richard Bohringer reinvents, goes back all over a life full of writing, passions, love affaires and tenderness.
A journey to the land of his memory, a road movie dedicated to Africa, to the friends, dead or alive, to the women, the alcohol, the wandering.
Like a boxer on the ring, very touchy, he carries us travelling through his own texts, in the atmosphere that only him knows how to create.
Everywhere between the texts, improvisation finds its place.
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