• I find myself browsing with my eyes,
    les doigts indecis,

    I have nowhere to go anymore... les lumières tamisées et les oranges irisés merveilleux des lampes a sodium des caves à mots
    ont été remplacées par des neons trop blancs, trop puissants.
    Ces refuges la sont scellés. J'ai du mal a en trouver d'autres, je n'y rentrerais surement pas.

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  • Sunday morning,
    you can hear the sun falling hard on the Polygon. If I hear the sun, that's not because people went to church nor because Sunday mornings are to be happy-family-time-in-the-garden - you know, the back of the Kellog's box-. Nor it is a day couples and single lovely human beings allow themselves a well deserved extra hour in bed after a hard week.
    This morning even the pink-hair lady isn't out emptying her bins from the cans she didn't buy. I'm walking out of Burlington road, my beloved one-year-stand street, and everything is so quiet that it seems unreal. Even the birds, not that I see any, seem to know.
    It's dead quiet because yesterday night, 99% of the road went to piss itself right down from the bottom of the stomach to the brain, and at this precise moment, while I'm turning at the corner I can see all those sons and daughters, all those brave boys and girls that mum and dad have mountains of money and hope for, all those future graduates and adults building the British society, they are all just sleeping little babies, they are little angels lying flat among cans and bottles, for some of them with barbies whose name they forgot, for others with empty sachets which price they wish they could forget, they're all upside down, floating like dead corpses in dark oil, in their intoxicated black and blank sleep.
    I'm quiet too while I walk out, I know how every single boy and girl will wake up in a few hours, and they'll all wake up with the same hangover, inside each single house a pathetic story with no plot repeating itself, ad nauseam.

    I'm smiling, fuck knows why.

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  • 'Ca fait combien alors ?'

    'Ben 89.
    C'est pas mal. C'est beaucoup même. Un peu trop parfois.
    Comme on dit du moment que la tête est la... Mais bon je sais pas ce qui est le mieux,
    parce que tu te rends compte de tout ce que tu ne peux pas faire, tu es conscient si tu veux,
    alors que d'être gateux, au moins, tu t'en rends pas compte.
    C'est juste moins embêtant pour les autres, je suppose.'

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  • "Hi Fang.

    Happy new year.
    I have saw your site.
    I feel your mind from your photo.

    Always I wish your happy.

    from Tokyo, Japan"

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  • Cycling back from the swimming pool I see a group of people with candles. I stop for a minute and walk to ask what they do that for. Leading to the question : 

    Hi, what are you lighting candles for ?
    For Gaza.
    I consider her answer.
    For Gaza, or for peace ?
    She changes her face straight away.
    Well for peace of course, and for the people in Gaza. Who are suffering.
    As she changed her face in the another-fucking-jew-related-moron-fuck-off-you-fucking-idiot-face while looking away, I thought it was appropriate to start changing mine too, into the I'm-smiling-at-how-unsurprising-this-answer-is-and-of-course-i'm-not-going-to-ask-you-what-about-the-365-other-days-Israel-gets-civils-targeted-bombs-don't-worry-face.
    Because I know she knows and she knows I know, poor old retired lady and her hypocrite christian compassion. 
    Another retired lady (oh yeah, that's a fact you might not be aware of : in the UK all peace demonstration and volonteering is done by old retired ladies,) this other lady says, with a little voice, it's also for the people in Israel, because they (apparently?!) suffer too.
    I wish she had talked to me first, which is silly, of course.



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