Saturday.
19:00.
For the first time in three months time I'm at my parents for dinner. Less than ten minutes later, following the absorption of a cocktail made with the means at hand (rum, lemon, clementine pressed sugar cane ... something truly undrinkable) I am officially drunk. Slumped in the leather sofa listening to conversations and avoided as much as possible to participate. In my state I can not align three words without starting a spin that does not fail to amuse my brother. I do find my mind that when clearing the table.
Through the kitchen window I can make Paris and its lights. Calling the city is strong tonight.
23h30: Back to my home I see that asshole was parked in my parking space. I'm so out of the confines of my home to find a place in one of the adjacent streets.
While returning to my apartment, I rant, I smoke, I grumble, but eventually abandoned the idea of deflating the tires of the intruder. Writing a scathing letter to me a little quiet the nerves and allows me to think more calmly to my evening. I picked up the little cash lying around in my living room and anoint me slightly before resort.
Once outside, I slide the ticket under the wipers venomous of the aforementioned asshole. Needless act but I know that relieves ...
I put the contact, increase heat and turn up the sound of my car radio. Paname direction.
0:20: I go into the Emergency Room Bar, just steps from the Pantheon. I have to wait more than one half hour to find a seat at the bar. A place .... The word is a bit much; say a few square centimeters sufficient to raise my glass and an elbow. Around me restless youth. I must be the only person not accompanied by the establishment and I do not feel in my place. When I point to a group of guys where the table waiting for their companions, a young man turns to me and throws me this terrifying sentence:
"Thank you sir. "Am I
air that old? I am now seen as an anachronistic entity?
03:00 am: I walk alone in the streets of Paris to get some fresh air mind. I'm not drunk, but I need fresh air. Having toured the Pantheon I pass the gates of the Luxembourg Gardens while carefully examining the photographs are hung. While walking I try in vain to remind myself of some verses of the poem of Aragon "Is this how people live," whose title is the underlying theme of the exhibition. I loose my memory these days.
A light rain begins to fall. My thin leather jacket, under which I do not wear a T-shirt, does not protect me enough from the cold night.
It's time to go.
04:00: Lying in my bed I can not sleep. Reading, failing to guide me to sleep at night helps me wrong. I
dark at around 05:00.
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