Summary

Charon’s black cab, the Sleepwalker’s dreams, a vanishing star, the broken stain glass of the Crucified, scattered roses. This is an incantatory ritual dedicaced to Eric Bossé, a stunning boy sharped as an archangel with whom I spend a long period of my life. In my first films, his listless presence was irradiative. The fierceness of his troubles finally overcame in 1996 when he was 33.