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Poetry

Evident duplicity of solitude. I see these old people seated
around a table; there are at least ten of them. I could have
fun counting them, but I am sure there are at least ten of
them. And phwee! If only I could fly off to heaven, fly off
to heaven straight away!
—-As they speak they all create a cacophony in which you
can only make out a few masticated syllables, as if torn out
by teeth. My God! How difficult it is to reconcile with the
world! . . .

I have counted. There are twelve of them. Like the Apostles.
And is the waiter meant to represent Christ?

And what if I bought a Jesus T–shirt?

 

Translated from the French by Gavin Bowd

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