The Fourth Avenue Café

11/7/13: Matty talking about Taylor liking the band and being asked to tour with her.

1/21/14: Matty talking about Taylor liking the band. xx

3/31/14: Matty talks about being asked to tour with Taylor and turning it down. "That was cool. It’s like, ‘We can’t, but that is really nice, thank you very much.”

11/4/14: Matty is pictured wearing a deluxe 1989 album cover tee at his concert in Milwaukee.

11/8/14: Taylor reblogs the picture on tumblr and says they are her favorite band.

11/9/14: Taylor likes these two pictures of Matty wearing the 1989 t-shirt.

11/9/14: Taylor liked this gif-set of Matty talking about whether he’s a dog or cat person.

11/19/14: Selena Gomez, Taylor and other friends went to The 1975 show in LA. Video of them singing along to ‘The City.’

I’m working on translating an interview of Hagio Moto by Saito Tamaki.  Here is the opening part that talks about Hagio’s difficult relationship with her mother.  I think it sheds a lot of light on why her characters are usually cut off from their parents in her manga.  There is a big discussion of Hagio’s gem of a story “Iguana Girl”.

—

Saito:    …First, I can’t say it enough, but I just can’t put down Iguana Girl (Iguana no musume; [See Matt Thorn’s excellent translation of this story in A Drunken Dream; Fantagraphics, 2010]).  There’s really nothing else to say about it except it is a true masterpiece, especially the idea how a person ends up being seen as an iguana.  There’s something so visually exciting about that, and I think it’s really effective in the way you symbolically draw certain types of relationships.  Well, I wonder why you chose “iguana” of all things?

Hagio:   Thank you very much.  I have a fairly strong reptilian side to me.  (Laughs.)  Their color doesn’t seem at all bad to me.  I like lizards.  A long time ago I would occasionally watch videos with images of iguanas from the Galapagos islands.  When I looked at them, I noticed they had these bodies that would stomp around on all four and stare into the sun –– it seemed like all they were doing was sunbathing, but — one seemed to have a face saying, “Ah!  I ended up becoming an iguana, but I really wanted to be human!”  You probably know this but the human fetus while it’s developing in the womb has a tail, the eyes are on the side not the front of face, and they even have faces like lizards.  It’s only over time that the fetus will become more human-like.  Looking at those iguana faces, I thought, gosh, they have faces like a human fetus.  I then started thinking how interesting it would be to have a story where an iguana wants to become a human.  That’s how Iguana Girl was born.

              An iguana princess living near the sea wishes “I want to be a human” and with the power of magic, she becomes one, grows up, and gives birth to two daughters.  However, the eldest of the two girls ends up looking like an iguana.  The mother ends up hating her own child, thinking, “It’s because she looks like me” but since the mother is the one who gave birth to an “iguana” then she thinks there must be something iguana-like quality even in me.  That’s how this fantastic story goes.

Saito:    You’re right in that when it comes to mother-daughter relationships, the body has an important element.  So now I would like to ask you something because I was wondering if you thought the problem of development is tied up in that.  In your work Alternate World Barbara (Barubara ikai, 2003-2005), why does your character Kiriya read Stephen Jay Gould’s Ontogeny and Phylogeny [Translated into Japanese by Watanabe Masataka in 1988].  How did things come to get tied up to those questions?

Hagio:   I’ve long been a fan of books on heredity and evolution.  Because I often wonder how did humans come to human.

Saito:    I see.  So then we have a character who is compensated for having failed to become a human.  In a sense, you’re stressing our similarities when you have the mother hate her daughter Rika for looking like an iguana.  The younger sister Mami is the one who is showered with affection by the mother.  Is it because they don’t look alike?

Hagio:   That’s correct.  It’s because Mami was born looking exactly like the mother thinks a human should look.

Saito:    So it’s because the younger sister looks human, right?  Only when the mother dies do we get the shock that even the mother had an iguana face.  Did the mother then have a sense that she herself looked like an iguana?

Hagio:   We learn from Rika’ aunt, that every time her mother was told by her sister, Rika’s aunt, “Rika-chan looks just like you,” the mother would become enraged.  However the mother herself has the memories of her being an iguana locked away, and she has forgotten it all.  But we do see her viewpoint of her daughter change bit by bit as she gets more objective.

Saito:    As long as her self-awareness that they look alike is weak, it stays unconscious and only comes out in her action, so she has fewer and fewer chances of her fixing her behavior.

Hagio:   That’s why when the mother is asked, “Why do you hate your daughter?” she herself doesn’t know the answer.  Even so, there is this very thing part of her that notices how her daughter carries on the parts of that self she so dislikes.  If only she could see things clearly and realize that well, she is my daughter so I guess we just live with it.  But because she doesn’t want to acknowledge that, she goes on just seeing things she doesn’t like.

Saito:    Could it not be the opposite?  The daughter looks at the mother and goes, “I don’t want to become like her”?  I think there are cases like that.

Hagio:   I think you’re right, there are a lot of those cases.

Saito:    So the possibility for the opposite situation is common?

Hagio:   Yes, you’re right.  When I was little, I long thought that if there is one thing I don’t want to become it’s my mother. (Laughs.)

Saito:    Why was that?

Hagio:   Well, you see, my mother is like an active volcano.  (Laughs.)  She’s a high-tension person, who for 365 days of the year is angry all 365 days.

Saito:    Constantly erupting?

Hagio:   Oh yes.  She’s one who constantly erupts.  As a child, I once asked my mother, “Why are you mad everyday?”  But my mother said, “I am easygoing,” telling me, “It’s my mother [my grandmother] who was extraordinarily strict, and because I suffered that, now I want to be nice to my own daughter.”  She then said, “That’s why this anger of mine is a result from you not listening to what I say.”

Saito:    I see, I guess your mother has this strong side to her that wants to control things.

Hagio:   She doesn’t admit it, and what’s more she is, I think, a person who really demands we [children] do things exactly the way she wants.             

Saito:    Even so, it’s not that it was an unreasonable kind of anger, a kind of abuse, right?  She had her reasons.

Hagio:   Hmm…I think she might have had them.  Still, it was the kind of thing where all day long she would violently slam open the doors ga-shin ga-shin!

Saito:    But she would have a reason every time, right?

Hagio:   She would have a reason, sure enough, but she’d also take it out on people.

Saito:    She would have no realization she was taking it out on others?

Hagio:   Not really.  I think my mother is not the type of person who could be aware of her own actions like that.

Saito:    Nonetheless she seems to have this recognition that she was at least better [to you] than her own mother was to her.

Hagio:   I was only in 2nd grade when my grandmother passed away, so I really don’t have a memory of her, yet there were times [I recall] she would come visit us, and, oh yes, I do remember she was a person who could easily get angry right away.

              My grandmother ran a general store.  Among my friends, “KenKen” [Hopscotch] was popular game and when my stone split and I couldn’t use it anymore, I went up to her and asked her, “I would like this kind of rock,” and she told me, “Next time you come, I’ll have one ready for you.”  That was nice.  So I said, “Bring me a big one!”  But then when I saw her next, she brought me a small rock so I asked, “Granny, I told you didn’t I to bring a big one.  This one is just too small!”  When she heard that, she flew into a rage.  (Laughs.)

Saito:    She got mad at her granddaughter!  (Laughs.)  She never did anything like raise her hand to you?

Hagio:   That she never did, no, but even so, she might really surprise me and so I always ran off crying to my mother, who would be angry.  (Laughs.)

Saito:    But she seemed to be justified being angry, right?  Let me ask you – does a part of you understand now that your mother was a person who she was because she was raised by this kind of person [your grandmother]?

Hagio:   Now as we talk about it, yes, I do.

Saito:    What about the idea that maybe your mother was a bit better than your grandmother?

Hagio:   My mother also has this tough side to her, so these days when I go home to visit, I’ll try asking her, “Mom, were there times when you’d fight with Grandma and cry?”  There are a lot of things I want to ask her about.

Saito:    These days does your mother still get angry?

Hagio:   Right.  Well, I take extra precautions not to burn her fuse, but suddenly her tension level will just go up.  For example, let’s pretend my mother, who’s in high-tension mode, is here with us.  She will get irritated at the unopened water bottle there next you, Saito-san, and she will go, “Saito-san, why don’t you drink it up?  It’s right there, drink it!” (Laughs.)  “But right now I’m not thirsty, so give me time.  I’ll drink my water,” you say to her knowing you have to restrain yourself with all your might.  But she will seem to suddenly get annoyed with that water.

Saito:    She has these quick escalations where you don’t know why it happens.  In one sense, I guess she is a treasure-trove of story ideas.  (Laughs.)

              So let me ask you, Ms. Hagio:  you come from a family where there is 4 kids.  Among them, there are 3 girls.  Was there no discrimination among you like we see in Iguana Girl?  Did you mother equally get angry at you all?

Hagio:   Yes, she spread her anger out equally to us all, but my eldest sister was a daddy’s girl with a quiet disposition, so when my mother would go on a rant, she would burst out crying.  At those times, my mother would complain to other ladies in the neighborhood, “That cries at no matter what I say, so I can’t do anything.”

Saito:    Did her crying have a pacifying effect?

Hagio:   She would calm down then, yes.  But that’s why most of her anger would turn to me, my youngest sister, and my little brother.

Saito:    Did you often cry?

Hagio:   Yes, I did.  And if I did cry, mother would tease me about it, and that would hurt.

Saito:    Were there times when things would escalate beyond that?

Hagio:   Sometimes my younger sister would hurl complaints back at her and she would cry.

Saito:    The three of you each had their own way of coping.  Until about when did that go on?

Hagio:   Well, my mother really hasn’t changed over the years, so…

Saito:    Ms. Hagio, didn’t you at one point leave home?

Hagio:   That’s right, I did.  I was around 20 when things got to the point where I left home and tried to live as a manga artist in Tokyo.  After that, I was able to have some distance, both physical and emotional from my mother.  She was living down in Kyushu, so I finally could relax being up in Tokyo.

Saito:    I imagine you had quite a sense of liberation then.

Hagio:  I didn’t really notice it myself, but sometimes when Mother would come visit me in Tokyo, I seemed to get fidgety.  Friends would ask me, “Hagio, why do you fidget around your mother?”

Saito:    Someone on the outside could clearly sense it, right?

Hagio:   I would deal with her visits by always, always trying not have her get mad.

Saito:    Would it go well then?

Hagio:   I guess so.  Because I was always on the lookout.  But it really wore me out.

Saito:    “Mother, please go home without getting mad.” (Laughs.)  I understand that drawing manga was very important for you, but do you think perhaps you really ran away to escape your mother?  Was that part of the reason why you went to live in Tokyo?

Hagio:   That’s definitely true.  Ever since I was a third-grader I had been thinking I’ve got to run away.  At night I’d bury myself under the covers and think things like, “To run away, where would I have to go?” 

Saito:    I see, so from that time there was that kind of atmosphere in the house.

Hagio:   Right, because my mother could be just so uptight about things.  I wanted “anywhere but here”.

Saito:    People often talk about a “family romance” where a child goes, “What if I am not really from this family?”  Did you ever think that?

Hagio:   Yes, my younger sister often had this competition over “Which of us is not really from this family?”

Saito:    Since she would get scolded so harshly, your younger sister too often had those ideas?

Hagio:   That’s right.  But if one of us said, “Ok, then you were the one they picked up under the bridge?” then we’d have to make concede to each other and remind us that it wasn’t true.

Saito:    But your older sister didn’t factor into those talks.

Hagio:   Right.

Saito:    Your older sister then must have gotten along well with your father, right?

Hagio:   She did, quite well.  My father is basically a gentle person, so he was easy to get along with for everybody.

Next:

I happened to read an interview with Suzuki Toshio about Tezuka Osamu today. He's most famous as the producer of Studio Ghibli, but he first started his career as an editor at Tokuma Shoten and when he was younger, he apparently worked with Tezuka on a two-chapter series called Deka modoki. It's a detective story about a cop who saves a con man from drowning, and the con man is so grateful he insists on dedicating his life to the cop -- going so far as to move in with him and becoming, basically, his housewife???

And I honestly did not think Tezuka had written anything as gay as MW, but this is pretty damn gay. In the second chapter, the con man gives the cop a massage after he comes home tired from working on a case, and basically declares "I'm in love with you."

Now the Japanese 惚れた ("horeta", to fall in love, become infatuated with) doesn't necessarily indicate a romantic attraction, and especially because the con man uses diction/slang/dialect that's kind of... Tokyo/Edo, working class, iki (another example of this: he also calls himself "asshi", which is a loose form of "atashi", which is not an exclusively female pronoun unlike some people will insist), it could easily indicate admiration for someone's personality or lifestyle or morals. So Tezuka is clearly playing with homoeroticism here, but I honestly didn't expect much more to come from it.

But then the second chapter ends with the con man accidentally drinking powdered deer antler (an aphrodisiac in Chinese medicine), getting horny, and trying to hook up with the cop????

While watching ChibiYuuto’s videos looking through CLAMP’s old doujinshi works, I was intrigued by the use of the word ‘Duklyon’ popping up in one of their Shoten books from late 1988. It’s written with the same spelling as we later see used to refer to our beloved CLAMP School Defenders Duklyon but back then the concept appears to be a little different. It also might even be one of the earliest mentions of it.

On the page before, there is this other image that serves as a sort of cover page for the news and members info section and in the text below it appears to mention the full title of something that could have been this early concept.

I had to search with radicals and try to find the closest-looking kanji with whatever I could make out so I may very well be wrong here but it appears to read as something like 戦闘装兵デゥカリオン. A quick run through Google translate offers ‘combat armour’ for the kanji. And the katakana is one of the ways ‘Deucalion’ could be written in Japanese, which is why it stood out to me. By the time they were later using the word for Gakuen Tokkei Duklyon it was written as デュカリオン of course.

IRENE ADLER AS GENDER NON-CONFORMING We know that Irene Adler, from A Scandal In Bohemia, is a gender non-conforming character, who dresses both as a man and a woman: 

But, you know, I have been trained as an actress myself. Male costume is nothing new to me. I often take advantage of the freedom which it gives. I sent John, the coachman, to watch you, ran upstairs, got into my walking clothes, as I call them, and came down just as you departed.

From this we could derive several queer-themed interpretation. One of these is that she was assigned male at birth, and thus familiar with wearing masculine clothes and able to pass for a man, but preferred to identify as a woman, as that’s how Holmes and Watson respectfully address to her. 

‘THE WOMAN’ Adler being a trans woman would make the appellative ‘the woman’ a way of celebrating her gender rather than a way of putting her on a pedestal at the expense of other women.

ADLER’S VOICE Another hint in this direction is the fact that she sings Contralto, which is the lowest voice category for a female. 

“Let me see!” said Holmes. “Hum! Born in New Jersey in the year 1858. Contralto—hum! La Scala, hum!

Jour 22 : un air de déjà-vu

C’est là que je commence à me demander si les auteurs se prêtent des trames de chemises ou bien, si les personnages ne se partageraient pas des garde-robes, malgré la différence de gabarit. Ici, une autre variation florale, que l’on retrouve aussi bien sur la chemise qu’en arrière-plan de la case.

Saint Valentin

Je devais faire un petit portrait documentaire dans le cadre d’un atelier. Nous avions pris contact avec Victor, un nettoyeur de scènes extrêmes. Évidemment j’avais commencé à alimenter quelques rêveries romantiques à son égard. On ne pouvait pas trouver de meilleur partenaire de vie que quelqu’un qui passe ses journées à lessiver du sang et à aspirer des punaises de lit en combinaison de polypropylène. Mon cœur s’arrêtait à chaque fois que je l’appelais.

Au téléphone, il jouait à donner des airs rares et précieux à chaque autorisation qu’il me donnait d’entrer dans sa vie professionnelle. Il m’avait donné rendez-vous le jour de la Saint-Valentin sur le parking d’une boulangerie proche de l’entrée du périphérique de Vaise. Sur place, j’avais insisté pour inviter, enfonçant avec un élan grotesque ma carte bleue dans le lecteur. Lui, examinait avec gêne la complétude de son repas : entrée, plat, dessert, dessert, boisson, uniquement des trucs exclus du menu promotionnel. 19 euros de glucides qu’il infligeait à mes revenus de chômeuse.

 Vous savez ce que vous êtes prêts à voir ou non ? Par exemple ça ? Vous êtes prêts à voir ce genre de chose ?

Il me montrait sur son téléphone des tapisseries grasses d’huiles de cuisine et de sang, des parquets souillés d’urine et de matières fécales, un matelas sur lequel un cadavre avait diffusé avec application l’empreinte de tous ses fluides.

— Regarder ça va, mais c’est vrai que l’odeur je ne sais pas trop.

— C’est une odeur unique au monde.

J’avais pris une minuscule quiche aux poireaux que j’émiettais avec les doigts. Avoir des sentiments pour Victor me donnait envie d’assécher mes entrailles, de ne rien y verser. Je me disais que probablement j’allais finir par souffrir, je voulais déjà disposer mon corps.  

Le jour du tournage, je me suis maquillée légèrement, je suis arrivée tôt dans le parc où il nous avait donné rendez-vous. J’en ai fait le tour à la recherche de plans : un envol de corneilles, le carrousel d’immeubles déroulé derrière le remous des arbres. Tout ce que je regardais me semblait stupide. La plupart des images me semblent stupides. Est-ce qu’il vivait là ? Est-ce qu’il serait en avance ?

Et puis mes collègues sont arrivés, tout est allé très vite : il y avait des problèmes de batterie, des histoires de cartes SD, des faux contacts, le soleil tapait trop fort ou pas assez, je commençais à chercher des piles dans l’herbe.

Victor est arrivé. Je ne savais pas quoi faire de mon corps et je devais disposer le sien en fonction des projections du soleil, des ombres jetées par les feuillages, des cris d’enfants, des crottes de chien. J’ai fini par lui indiquer son emplacement. Il s’est assis et nous a dit j’ai une conjonctivite. Et c’est vrai qu’il avait une conjonctivite, c’était difficile de le contester. Après une série de petites manœuvres, des réglages, des trucs, on a fini par faire le clap, à dire on tourne. Tout le monde a commencé à lui poser des questions connes. Ma collègue Agnès filmait les mains de Victor, c’était complètement con. Tout était con, tout le monde était con. C’était vraiment une journée compliquée. À la fin de l’interview, Victor a dû jouer une scène dans laquelle il arrive dans le parc et une scène dans laquelle il quitte le parc. Le tournage était fini. Victor est rentré retrouver sa famille et avec mes collègues nous sommes partis faire ce que font tous les documentaristes du dimanche : transférer des cartes mémoire.  

J’envisageais tout de même des suites je voulais en savoir plus, je devais continuer à lui parler. Je demanderais à Victor une place dans son camion pour l’interviewer, juste avec un micro cette fois. Nous irions sur les routes d’île de France, dormirions dans des hôtels Ibis et des Formule 1. Un jour, nous finirions par nous rejoindre sous prétexte de manger ensemble, de regarder un documentaire. Et je me retrouverais à fourrer ma tête dans les matières techniques de son blouson et le temps se rétracterait, et pendant cinq minutes toute l’inquiétude que je traîne pour tout et pour rien serait tarie.

J’ai envoyé le film à Victor pour avoir son approbation. Il n’a jamais répondu. Il devait être aussi embarrassé que moi. Nous ne nous sommes plus jamais contactés.

Le palais des moisissures

Je repensais au garçon et à cette histoire. Je me rappelais ces minutes avec lui, comme elles ouvraient des gouffres, comme elles les colmataient et me précipitaient dans le ventre d’un cadavre. Chaque cadavre de journée se glissait dans un autre cadavre. En une dizaine de jours, j’étais plongée dans un habitacle putride où j’attendais paralysée.

Cette histoire a fait beaucoup de dégâts. Je sais que tout est réparable, je sais aussi que rien ne sera jamais réparé. Il existe des paroles qui consolent, mais elles ne sont jamais prononcées.

Chaque journée produisait sur moi de profondes dégradations. Un ver s’incrustait dans mes pensées, s’allongeant jusqu’à former une longue pelote qui menait toujours au même cocon : la laideur, l’abandon, la mort.

Je fumais ma clope, jambes repliées, les pieds collés à mon slip humide. Je me tordais dans le fauteuil pour sentir la tension de quelques muscles. Le reste de ce corps se répandait en graisses et vergetures où se logeaient d’ingrates rêveries de petite fille. Je constatais à quel point toutes les surfaces du studio étaient hostiles. L’air était bourré d’accoudoirs, de linges divers, de sacs et de boîtes. Une toile d’araignée pendouillait au-dessus de la tête du mec. Le matelas s’affaissait dans un sommier aux lattes éclatées gisant sur une souille de poussières et de déchets d’ongles. Dans les placards, les souris s’étaient construit un palais constitué de becquées de sacs poubelles, de mâchons de formulaires administratifs et prospectus sur une litière de semoule renversée. Les plinthes se disloquaient révélant des mystères terreux.

Concernant les arts ménagers j’avais été éduquée par les parasites. Les parasites vous obligent à évaluer chaque élément de votre environnement et à vous demander si vous devez les sceller, les bouillir, les javelliser, les aspirer, les pulvériser, les bouillir ou les congeler. Une fois cette appréciation portée sur chaque chose, eh bien il faut se mettre au travail.

J’ai engouffré une pizza du Docteur Oetker dans le four électrique. Le ronron de la minuterie accompagnait mes pensées romantiques. Lui, il s’était déjà rassemblé en une fiente glaciale, sa tête penchée sur les chaussures qu’il laçait avec égoïsme. Il devait penser à l’inquiétude logée mon regard. Il vibrait, stimulé par les ondulations de mon affolement. Il invoquait toute la vitalité de mon insignifiance quand il scellait cette basket autour de son pied.

Et voilà. L’affaire était pliée pour la journée, sans doute pour la semaine, il était parti distribuer sa personne à d’autres gens, dans d’autres quartiers, dans d’autres linges de lit. Il distillait des petites terreurs, en envoyant des textos glacials, en donnant des ordres l’air de rien, en balayant d’une phrase les meilleurs morceaux de nos conversations. Les ponctuations brutales de ses messages, les brusques inflexions d’humeurs, les sarcasmes, les compliments souillés de mépris campaient dans chaque recoin de mon lit, dans chaque pore des murs de béton. C’était un peigne à déchets, il fallait lui proposer chaque jour de nouvelles ruines.

Il s’amusait, on l’aimait ; je pleurais, personne ne m’aimait. Il n’y avait pas beaucoup plus à en dire. Ce n’est pas une pizza surgelée qui allait renverser la situation. Toujours est-il que pleurer était une activité intéressante dont je découvrais les nuances et les bienfaits. Certaines chialades n’étaient pas désagréables, elles me plongeaient dans une intimité étrange de vestiaire de piscine, et se terminaient par un cérémonial de salle de bain. Examen perplexe et bienveillant des gonflements et rougeurs du visage, vidange soigneuse des narines, onctions réparatrices.

Quelque fois dans l’année, il retournait entre les bras de ses parents pour se reposer des tourments qu’il provoquait. Il regardait la télé, discutait de tout et de rien avec sa mère, s’ennuyait, feuilletait la presse régionale, les prospectus. Ces moments de répit lui permettaient d’huiler les rouages d’une brutalité discrète.

Un soir parmi ces soirs qui s’écroulaient dans l’abandon, trois coups étaient venus s’étouffer contre ma porte. Le lendemain matin, j’ai trouvé mon paillasson enflé, je l’ai soulevé et ai trouvé mon portemonnaie : carte d’identité, deux pièces de cinquante centimes, quelques tickets de caisses, deux capotes. Cette ébauche de visite m’avait touchée : un inconnu avait cherché mon adresse, avait poussé la porte d’entrée, avait respiré derrière ma porte, avait hésité, avait frappé avec délicatesse pour que je sache qu’il ne cherchait pas à me déranger, à me brusquer, à m’effrayer. Il avait attendu, écouté, entendu les sons étouffés d’une vidéo YouTube. Il avait compris que j’étais là, avec précaution, il avait glissé sa trouvaille sous mon paillasson.

Certains évènements comme celui-là m’ont hissée des eaux dans lesquelles je m’enfonçais. Peu à peu mes pensées se sont repeuplées. Il a fallu de la méthode et de la patience pour neutraliser chaque démon qui se présentait,

Par ajustements successifs de mon jugement, par les gentillesses diverses que j’avais reçues, des mots amicaux, des générosités banales, j’ai repris des forces.

J’ai fini un an plus tard par quitter mon appartement. J’ai dû aspirer la semoule, la terre et les cadavres de souris incrustés dans le lino. J’ai nettoyé les moisissures et le salpêtre sécrétés par les murs. J’ai lessivé les portes, les poignées, les vitres, les halos de tabac.

Un voisin à qui je n’avais jamais parlé s’est présenté à moi alors que je frottais l’encadrement de la fenêtre. Ben vous partez ? Franchement je suis tellement content pour vous, c’est atroce ici. Vous avez pas retrouvé votre portefeuille une fois ?

Mon cœur s’était réchauffé à l’idée qu’un inconnu me veuille du bien.

J’ai passé plusieurs jours à nettoyer dix ans de vie misérable dans une odeur intense de produits ménagers. Ah c’était vous. Je suis contente de partir oui, je vais revivre. Je m’allongeais sur les cartons et lançais une musique sur mon téléphone pour qu’elle résonne sur chaque pan de cet endroit désolé. Bon courage pour vivre ici, j’espère que vous trouverez autre chose. Bonne journée.

Vous êtes où ? T où ? 

Moi je suis sur le web dans ville morte. Ca tombe bien puisque  vous n’avez plus rien à faire dehors à cette heure là

Interview à lire ici : https://villemorte.fr/popier/

i too experience whatever mental illness this is 🤭