Pure Pierre, Pearl of the Sun.

I always dreamed of a vampire story that ends
in a marriage between Baroness Corvu and her
sheer bloody victim: it seems that there is some
injustice to perpetually condemning vice in what
must be its most attractive abode. This is the desire,
among others, which gave birth to Midnight Noon.

A desire to paint an isolated world, at once autonomous,
mythological, or is it less surprising, perhaps, to see me
thrive on secret manure, the radiant hypocrisy of triumph.
And this summer, it is also the desire to translate
the traditional vampire story's data.

At night, in fog, anxiety, and Northern pale colors, I
substituted the sun, drought, joy's bright white South, Algier.
The carriage of the doctor and his wife is the 2CV of
two young lovers' naïveté. The transpositions all but
stop there.

I hope they like to admit that today "monsters"
are not necessarily best for the job, and I hope
you will accept the idea that normal love
being normal may cross the line and match "monsters."
After all, Midnight Noon is a little like the story
of Beauty and the Beast... Here, simply enough,
Prince Charming has neglected his operation
and remained a charming Hyde, like newspaper.

In fact, it is as much or less than blurred boards
as it is torn cards, or different games, and their
only setback is the same color: yellow.
A laugh, a white some night, some red blood,
I mix and I cut Snow White's ringlets from
the face of Gilles de Rais, while Tom Thumb,
"a criminal", sows pebbles in the scrub-land
where any visitors might encounter an evening
with Jack the Ripper, the divine Marquis, or
Hans Christian Andersen looking for a
"symbol of sharp fairy teardrops".

If I can make them smile trapped between
two chicken meats, I would say that I hit my goal.