"I have a very ordinary, even flat life, but I like it." I ask my interlocutor to repeat. We were standing, some friends around us. We started by questioning my novels, the meaning I brought to them, why I was writing. As I am talkative, it lasted a long time. Then, as the subject dried up, I sent the ball back to the one who was asking me all these questions.
Twenty-thirty hours, in the lost steps room of Berri-Uqam station. I'm with a friend, waiting for another one of his friends. We're sitting. Coffee is obviously terrible. My friend eats a dry potato flour doughnut. In front of me, the flashy ticket office of the STM and, sitting on the benches, not impatient customers, but haggard beings.
Fuzzy people live in our daily lives. We meet them, look at them for a time of desire or indifference. Some are happy, others don't know how they will make it through the day. Some will die today while the survivors laugh, work, prepare to live or die tomorrow. More will be born.
It's not hot "for the water pump" this morning (French expression to tells that it's cold as to freeze your balls). The cold, like a big elephant, is pushing everything in the porcelain shop. The passers-by are shivering, some are overdressed while others still have their skirts a little too short.