Trafika Europe 5 - Slovenian Interlude

Nothing remarkable

Nothing remarkable. The woman staggered to her right, then leaned against the locked bank door (it was Sunday) and stared ahead as if she had seen Pierre Abelard in a monk’s frock with a huge golden penis in his hand running toward the Bastille. Nothing new. He slept on one of the 104 mattresses in front of the Maison du Travail and dreamed of Somali sand, which collected on him more and more. A citation. It was Monday at noon. It’s unknown how many years he’ll need to re- excavate what was buried during his brief morning emigration into sleep. Nothing real. A river of people, each lugging their story behind them like a loaf of moldy bread inside a suitcase. The rattling wheels on the cobblestones in front of Gare de l’Est. It’s from here that thoughts once departed every Wednesday, following the trains for Vladivostok. Does the Tunguska son, perhaps a Mongol, who lies in a jute sack wrapped around an advertising column, hear the ground tremble? Does he hear the belly of Paris, which rumbles, ah, rumbles, this rabid, defiant beast? Nothing amusing, as it begins to grow dark. A team of horses with no coachman pulls into Champ de Mars. The first time, Charles gets out of the carriage, the second time,


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