Reste Envie

To need, to be needed, in four corners. Sleep and privacy, gases come and gases go, and now you are the only one in the room you sit in, you are one with the room you sit in, as if there are no negatives and no positives--did you know that you are an extension of your apartment? Did you know that you are in a codependent relationship with your apartment? Did you know that your apartment knows and appreciates all of your secrets?--I feel safe, which is not a new need for human beings, but a very ancient one, almost the first one. It is enacted by the possibility of sound, humming or strumming something mostly. But the quiet apartment makes its own sounds: a single longing note of birdsong told to the beat of restful breathing, the angelic insistence of tinnitus, the neighbours. Sometimes I wonder if silence means nobody's home. How still I sit. Sometimes I return to silence and feel hugged by the cool lightness of its touch, like sleeping with just a sheet in summertime. Like turning the key. Like a visit from the cat next door. Like a somnambulant ray reaching across the room, asking if you'd like to step outside. Reste Envie is a desirous message to oneself, made from a place of lived solitude: the parameters of home. — Bitsy Knox