On Va Taper Ça

The night is like a plastic garland - bright, a little harsh on the eyes, and stubbornly preventing sleep. The sounds seem to polish the stones inside: everything shines so brightly that it seems as if a small “vaisseau” made of bottles and neon promises is about to take off into space. Inside, there are neat rows of “carré,” a mental iron, and a funnel of jokes; at the same time, you want to shine and take off your mask, because under the light, everyone has the same headaches.

Words jump like champagne bubbles: somewhere there is boasting, somewhere there is fragile pride, somewhere there is subtle, almost childish banter about one's own clumsiness. In my hands is a rhythm that sometimes accelerates and sometimes slows down; in my head is a mixture of confidence and slight nausea from the endless soirée. The result is a warm, slightly mocking observation about how I want to be a bright ship in the night and, at the same time, sleep through the whole thing until tomorrow.