As if

Modifié le : 2019/08/06

Anoth­er day to touch up the Rim­mel of every­day life, anoth­er day to per­fect the var­nish of good man­ners, to scrub tasks, wash home­work, extend expectations.

We open our eyes by clos­ing the cur­tains on our dreams, leav­ing our burn­ing opi­ums to the sew­ers, by already for­get­ting those truths that had, dur­ing the night, no shame in bar­gain­ing their place in the sun with mon­sters more implaca­ble than they are.

We savor the order of the good nour­ish­ing soci­ety, which pro­tects us, extorts us cer­tain­ly our mar­row, but keeps us away from the barbarians.

Yet our skins are thin, our tumors incan­des­cent. No won­der every­one in this city is in tur­moil. There is lit­tle that sep­a­rates us from vio­lence and insan­i­ty. We all know it, we all keep silent. We pre­tend to.