Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

Not One Day

to believe… Ironic aporia of sovereignty: Mustn’t we get down on our knees to ascend to the throne? Sometimes you miss Y*. One morning, in a taxi that was taking you toward an airport, a train station, a lecture hall, the radio tuned in to some cultural program brought you her voice, the naked, enchanting voice of Y* that it seemed you had never heard before in its nudity, in its harmonics, in its inflections, her specter, the erotic fulguration of a desire without history and without hope. You think of how simple it would be to call her, meeting her in some discreet garden, a dark café. Perhaps the figure of what you desired would appear: to ravish her in her milieu, as if it were possible to strip her of these traits that she was probably driven to adopt in order to adapt to this world and the sort of Darwinian competition it compels. Irony: this heroic desire of stripping exceeds control itself, absolutizes it. More irony: in terms of milieu, you don’t have one, you’ve developed no specific adaptation to any and that’s what makes it so that you are thoroughly not at home anywhere and that these phrases are the only milieu that the two of you will ever share. How to unknot the thread of desire. Dream up nights. Wander again among the shadows. [Night 9]


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