My country no longer seems to be this winter that the poet was loudly proclaiming, at least not in the metropolis. It’s still raining, and the snow can’t resist. Yesterday afternoon, I saw a big crow strutting on the neighbor’s roof. However, I do not see the other birds, undoubtedly wiser than the reckless one, because, as we all know, winter certainly did not throw the towel, even if, because of warming, it now prefers to stay a little further east. The Quebec of the big city is undoubtedly becoming more Londonish.
I certainly don’t feel like sticking my nose out. Besides, my boots are taking on water. My money is being used to spend other things than seasonal essentials. We are about to enter February. People around me are already showing impatience, their morale is declining, and they will still go to work.
I close my eyes, I observe this fatigue, sediment more tenacious than snow, enveloping me with its temporal scales. Today is another day full of hope and tasks to be done. Even if I remain well camped in my cushions, with my legs crossed, the Internet under my Ariadne’s fingers, I know how to move forward. I have dreams of heading to unexplored lands, undoubtedly magnificent. I want to rest. My ideas, like waves, collide with the Great Cliff, very high with its capital letters.
I open my eyes, not only to revise this text, but also to take my place among the ants. Time is my Supreme Soviet.