The subway does not exist - it is a fiction. What exists, however, are its sidelines, its hallways, enclosed docks. This is where life is where the nothingness of temporary shelters, makeshift taverns, garbage becoming a closet or a refrigerator.
The subway is not as substance, it is the holder of relationships, not so many movements - I do not move in the subway, at best, I cover myself - the travel. The metro is not even a real network: those who inhabit it do not communicate between the poles it connects, it is perhaps not all, at best, it offers, provides, offers, suggests travel arrangements.
I do not move in the subway, I cover myself, I nestled myself perhaps, whether I'm myself or no, I am, I don ' ahead get nothing, I 'm a transit in a transit in transit within a translation, a stream that leads me and I always already know where. For it is in the metro this size always-planned. I can be surprised, but this does not alter the course of displacement: if I can achieve this as well, I could do it otherwise. The subway does not disappoint. It is only lines, or rather it is a line more or less right, between two coordinates: start / finish. The subway does not exist - without this basic geometry.
The metro does not exist outside its fence. Nor is there elsewhere outside its dependence on territory - or whatever you want really - so desperately that he follows behind, trying to be where this happens has already happened, to catch, to be there. But perhaps after it has occurred, is not too late?
The subway does not exist outside of those he carries, and it is always the same, the same individuals in the same places, the subway is just the driver where they are to where they want to go, where they want to be where they should go, where they are forced to where they are forced. The subway is only a substitute for our movements became too weak and extended, this is only a substitute himself too weak for our purposes.
The subway does not exist - is it then all I have to say?
I could say the subway is the rhizome, the mole that does not come out for nothing to see because she never stops outside, she is still hiding, she is not discreet, no, but she always tries to overcome its indiscretion in concealing his stops. It works like an animal runs underground.
Yes. Either. And then? What I say of his fiction, his life in Paris and others (suburban returnees, Parisian expatriates, tourists) covets it daily? What I would say so on the line 3a so weak that his vision mapped immediately arouses the desire: what's happening there? This is how the line 3a? And if we took Just for fun we would satisfy the take, to see how it is done carefully, how it is when you touch it? 7a or line that closes on itself, seems to lead nowhere. The fact that it is both in the same geographical area there a way? What prompted that there was need these growths?
The subway does not exist - it is a fiction. All or part (s). And, as such, it is an object of desire as possible. Not a theoretical object. Not an object which we dream. An object full of objects that want him, for sure, but may also want as we want a body that will not necessarily, we may have, but which we refer to as a body that is never really in its entirety.
This metro-there is neither nor rhizome network, it is residual, it is for example this is a breath escaping from his mouth and swallowed up all he wants (Under Dresses ? No, that subway is not glamorous then.).
Line 7a or Line 3a: Single line loop and loosens or trait that loop. These are not lines, but losses, traces of an impossible space that is always looking over his fence, which pushes the vacuum, subtract the empty vacuum operated, draws lines on the vacuum, the height, but certainly not joy. Although these alternative routes in a complex that is still in overload are: happiness to isolate small traces and convolutions, to realize that happiness of a, there is not only music, here and there also, where, music, there is little that the rails that attack rail and voices more or less stifled individuals, we can still want, you can ask for more. Not necessarily applaud with both hands it would be too, but do it again, repeat the lines.
In Italy, you can go up to interrupt the opera to hear again a tune tenor or soprano had played particularly well. In a, it merely repeats a tune, play it, it does not change the structure of the work nor does it emerge new situations creatively. But there is hope in this repetition of enjoyment that it is impossible to ignore.
The metro is not opera, but it also demands his recall it requires the repetition of lines. Whether erotic or not, does it really matter? What matters is that these lines show that the metro is only developed by repetition of itself. On the map, on the metro map, those lines do not even own color, they are degraded in a color that is already the color of a line. They only reproduce a number that is not theirs and do it in a color that is not entirely theirs. They exist at the expense of others, without the mimic (their journey is far too ridiculous to claim it), but by repeating gradient line that runs elsewhere.
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