I was not. I watched them. I heard them. There was some thing about me is a kind of atmosphere climate. I there without participating. I've never had the desire. I was there. Next on the sidewalk. I was speaking of a bitch, really. This is probably it. To see them, them, me, who do not like it, I smiled, not a moment of irony, just a vague feeling, like the idea that, yes, there are still individuals who believe in something. On my way, I enjoyed their walk. I do not believe in anything. I'm too lazy. I am less than a dilettante. Be a dilettante takes some practice. I am less than a dandy. Being a dandy requires the shaves at least once a day. I'm just a whore. There on the sidewalk. I look. But I do solicits person. I look. I am not a whore, so. I am a voyeur. I see them happy. Concerned. Incurred. Determined. I have exhausted all my irony for centuries to come. Then I watch them. A little smug. A little simpleton. I do not know what to do. Besides photographing. Aside from saving. One day I'll start with a disc recording on this day at this point it to these people. It will be October 20th two thousand and ten on the Boulevard du Montparnasse in eighteen hours twenty one demonstration against pension reform. And even if it ends as always with urine against the walls of buildings - in this case: my building even though I live on the other side of the court - and broken bottles against the floor - and even if the climate is not exactly the climate of the mid insurgency - saying that I too have lived in my way. A little distant, a little concerned, attentive anyway.
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