The night that never ends

It is an open-air planetarium under which residents dance. Darkness covers the city, the street lights serve as an electrically generated sun, the heat is at its height. Lightning bolts escape from the bare wires that connect the houses to the nuclear power station, a luminous lung without which the small community would suffocate.

Shirtless tourists lie on the asphalt, preferring the caress of hot tar on their backs to the privacy of a hotel room. Their sleep is accompanied by the scent of gutters, around which they have gathered. Despite the fact that their eyes are closed, they can very well perceive the light of the stars, as powerful as a laser that would pierce their eyelids. The soft reverberation of the cars driving on the ring road, located a few kilometers away, comes to their ears in the form of a pleasant, comfortable and diffuse sound coat.

A few blocks away is the city's famous "red light district", which has earned its unofficial nickname because of the political views mostly shared between these asbestos towers. As a kingdom of needles, paid pleasure and libertarian ideas, this shimmering cultural patchwork does not enjoy its reputation. Under the shameful gaze of the moon, transgender minstrels come to offer a lesson in curiosity and open-mindedness in exchange for a few European money. The artists parade proudly with their detuned guitars, while complaining about the lack of recognition of which they claim to be victims.

Inside the plaster giants that extend over this area, all curtains are drawn. The windows are open, letting a fragrance of opium spread in the street, intoxicating the neighborhood. In the blocks, the lights are out, leaving all the space for the outside glow to sneak through the crack pipes smoke. Silence reigns, no music disturbs the calm except for the indescribable noise that alienates all occupants of housing. It is the incessant din of death that clings to them a little more at each second. The hearts are dreary, the lips turn blue in the face of fear and cold. 

The air is scarce. Everyone here knows it, but nobody wants to accept it. Like insects trapped in an airtight dome, survivors are waiting for their turn. An engine noise disturbs the place's tranquility. It's the famous bus that crisscrosses the city without interruption. This vehicle isn't going anywhere, it has no destination, it just serves the same stops again and again. People don't use it to go to another place. The stop at which they get out is always the same as the one at which they get in. The "transurban", as it's called, is only a means of entertainment. One sits in it and stupidly contemplates the city through the dirty windows of this old scrap metal pile.

Rumors circulate in the city that doesn't sleep. It would appear that love is hiding somewhere between the sticky walls of a desolate building. One would not suspect it at the first visit, but this city is passionate for a suspenseful hunt. There is a real sentimental gold rush going on here. Some even say that the day could be back if someone managed to get their hands on this so coveted love. For ages, the most persevering have been striving to find it, using all stratagems possible. Some already got lost in the adventure.

This quest is all the more difficult as the Mayor has promised a big reward to the one who would have both the necessary luck and ingeniosity to find the loot. The competition sets in, and like everywhere, it is ruthless, leaving behind a pile of corpses with torn-out eyes. In the city, people can't take it anymore: the situation is too difficult to bear. Some try to create alternatives, palliatives. It is then an affective charity that is set up at the corner of each street. While waiting for the end of an endless search whose positive outcome is not even assured, we laugh, we drink and we slot like spoons, in an ocean of strap-on dildos and lubricated plastic. The atmosphere is casual. After all, it's better to laugh at it.

At the other end of town, in the west wing, life is completely different. In the rich neighborhood, traders in ties dance without ever stopping. Through the bay windows of their huge living spaces, there is always light. Inside, the gargantuan sound installations spew hours of contemporary music, thrilling the dancers to the depths of their being. 

When the fatigue becomes unbearable, when their muscles are paralyzed and when love songs have finished sucking their blood, the puppets collapse on their armchairs, adorning themselves with a blank stare, bathed in the sweat that oozes from their shirt. The party is over, until it goes again. This is the realistic moment, where the bitterness returns triumphant, like a violent bat stroke behind the already bald skull of these young businessmen.

What no one seems to understand in this city, whether in wealthy neighborhoods or shantytowns, is that there is no more love. It has been crushed over the years, a little more with each irresponsible action. The river has gradually turned into a torrent of mud, it is a collective assassination. The disease that devours the brains of these seemingly human-looking mutants led them to destroy the only precious thing they had left. Without ever turning back, the suffering souls rushed straight into the wall. When the collision took place with the latter, exploding their skulls and disfiguring them, the sun went down one last time, before disappearing irreversibly. Love was dead.

(2017)