Les textes des gens, ce sont des textes au passé simple
Des textes de gens qui parlent peu et sentent beaucoup.
Le cadre est toujours particulier.
Des textes d'apothéose, souvent de mort, parfois d'orgasme, ou sans différence.

Une sorte d'essence de catharsis. Par la feuille simple. Plus d'attente, aucune hésitation multiparagraphes, mais l'avancée, la lucidité, le coeur, l'arrivée.
Aura-t-on jamais fini d'attendre.

The Calling ce matin m'a fait un coup au coeur.
Le soleil entre dans la pièce, je n'ai besoin de rien.

The Calling - Wherever you will go

For the gaz-station tango (2:10)

So basicly, what we've got here is about a fifth Borderlines - like, damn those binary gender choices, you know ; Artsies, a few artsy-fashionistas ; Rebels, in which I include sarrouels, keffiehs and dreads as well as gothic lolitas; Chicissimes and would-be chicissimes; and a few "my mother chose my clothes", though those can be found more often in scientific batches.


Sidegroups may include bordeline-artsies and bordeline-rebels, artsy-rebels, catholic schoolgirls, and keffieh-wearing chicissimes.


Les khagneux ont vraiment l'air de khagneux. Je vous jure.

What could bug me would be a year of hard toiling (in the sun, on the railway, working all day on the raaaailway) and nothing to show for it.
That put aside, it's basically a series of exams the like of which we've grown to know by heart, and if you're good, you're good, if you're not, it's a bit late to get better.

Things that be

Le soir sent la glycine.
Would it be summer yet?

and in the summer - what will that change?

[in progress]

This is the waiting room.

There’s a few chairs along the walls, a table with some strewn magazines, and a large window through which you can see the skies. Perhaps there’s a clock hung to one side, but you only glance at it out of habit, and play with meaning in the numbers.

We wait there like cats, dozing still and content, sharp thoughts muffled by the pure, heavy and delicious weight of gravity on our limbs. At intervals the sky fires up or purples down, and then we stare at the exquisite colored shadows and .

This is the waiting room, or corridor perhaps.

There’s a good number of people sitting like you are. Some you know, some you don’t. A few might be pacing around, they’ll sit down again.

You woke up one day in your mind and to this waiting room.

The wait is you, or perhaps you, it. In asking « for what ? » some found religion. Others, nihilism. The question itself has no meaning. Catsnip. The magazines give easy answers. The answers keep you from walking out.

Sometimes a door opens and in comes out comes another. They say : i found love. A journey. They say : art is the key. Or politics. They say : i know passion. They’ll sit down again. Sometimes they don’t come back.