Sometimes the way plastic bags fly and twirl in the air makes you wonder: How did we come to this day?
I stood on the balcony, on the sixth floor. Plastic bags, huge and arched but weak trees , and a huge ship. The latter, I could just hear it from where I stood, but I had to move to the opposite side of our apartment to see it. It was great, greatly intimidating too. However, I thought to myself, the canal was too narrow and restricted, so how come it supported this great body? It let out regularly three-tone horns, and it was not tugged.
My instinct pushed me back a few steps because I always envisaged a young brown man with a robe jumping between our building and the neighboring one, I was let down too when he didn't come that day. Close the window, I said, it's a mess outside, the man is not coming with the goods, the ship is not leaving, even though the canal can not take it no more, and the plastic bags are still dancing. Now I have a smell of glue flattering my nostrils, my father is standing on the ladder sticking what seemed to be nothing to the wall so I didn't complain nor comment. Finally the bags stopped. They settled down. Rain pushed them to the ground and held them mightier than anyone before, the mud was getting stickier and stickier. Petrichor had its way on everyone and everything. It flowed in my nose and in my veins. It's has been years ever since the first time I had a flow of Petrichor, apart from this, I still have the balcony, the walls, the glue, and my favorite window. No bags, no ship, no canal, no Petrichor.

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Ils me disent : « Mais si, elle est là, ta mère. » Avec l’air qu’ils prennent quand ils parlent à un tout petit enfant. J’ai l’habitude. Je ne réponds pas, à quoi bon. Mes mots ne... [+]