Here we are. It’s one of those nights where tiredness beats me square on my downcast brow, my drifting neck, my weary shoulders, my motionless loins. But it’s already too late to go to sleep and insomnia comes easily. My pinhole camera has nothing left to offer after my night shift and without enough sleep it is hard for me to use my full imagination. So what’s left? Writing? What else? And after that? I have given up two years of my life as a sample, flagship product. So do you like my drug? Now you must queue up to refresh yourself at the store or walk to the bookshop. Essentially, apart from a bit of megalomania, I’m hollow, but big enough to eliminate.
No more alcohol, no alcove, not enough twilight, never any dawn. At anytime, I take the only opportunity available to me. Nervously, I search for the black cord, all tangled up. I strip it apart, following the ball of wires, finally arriving at the TRS connector to stick into the Mac. Click, connect. Once it is plugged in, I feel like a part of something and that reassures me and ressembles me. Because the thing in question asks for no answers from people.
As I return from my matrix, I consult the definitive mood of my playlist, hesitating between the avant garde and the basics. The showcase or the dust? You wonder which, but at this point in my tale is hanging on by the tiniest pin, only a half-truth could satisfy me. Even if it was well-advertised and corrupted by a radio edit.
Text : Souklaye - Translation : Sophie IngeRead More »