Turn left when you reach the silver mini; the one with the
the man related how it was he had been apprehended by
crescent moon scratch on the side door and the yellow duck
a group of schoolchildren, who did not take his bag,
hanging from the mirror (another soft toy suicide: when will it
nor his wallet, nor anything for that matter, but would
ever end?) You should now be on a muddy path, pleasantly
not desist from asking him questions pertaining to the
steep, lined by trees whose leaves are at present uniformly
deepest of his desires. They were wolves, said he, who
orange, like the skin of fake-tanned English tourists, excepting
had not a taste for blood, but for discomfort. It was too
one tree, whose leaves are always green and whose bark
late before he learnt that they would seize any answer he
is always damp – and crumbles at the touch, as if it were
gave and rip it apart like hounds. By this time he had
a chocolate sponge. Once you have reached this tree turn
already settled upon honesty as the right way in which to
your eyes towards the sky. The path you should be making
go about the whole thing. Which is to say that he told
for now lies directly under the mid-grey cloud which
the young strangers everything: he laid bare his soul, lest
resembles the profile of a certain Spanish boxer (it will
they should think him evasive, or a liar. And he related how,
be obvious once you get to it). Seeing as it is a large cloud,
after the initial period of laughing and joking he noticed
you are advised to aim for the ground below the boxer’s
in their eyes a look of horror, as if they were foxes biting
nose, or – if running a minute late – below his chin.
into pigeons, only to discover that they were made of clay.
(Pierre Monceau and Jean-Pierre Sertin)
