He stands before me. Out of the ground, rising towards the sky. A square grid of lights ordered that emerge from the night. As a patchwork of lives. All these people. Home. Not caring about what happens in the square below, from above, next door. It is too cold this design, where a couple of forties that life was too full childless. There is the family model darlings straight out of a mold. The large family with brown heads. Less model but more lively. The single dropped crying before Dr. House. The single perfectly assumed that does not even know the first name that comes out of his home. He who loves every day in front of her mirror. One that sometimes looks out the window to see if she will suffer from this height. There the young couple who étrennent the Ikea sofa. The cat meows. Trumpeter who trumpet. Like every night at the same heure.Il is the sound of heels on the stairs, doors slamming, children shouting and screaming indifference. There's this very soft teen dating the sound of his player not to hear his parents yell at each other. There's little sister who prefers to hide under her bed. With his security blanket. The dead drunk screaming after the referee. The pervert in front of it prohibited. And then the first right there in front, there Claudette. In his cramped mess, the old lady whom nobody thinks, has forgotten itself. He only left but scraps of memories, some pictures and television. The same television that runs in a loop from a few days illuminating his face frozen, pale. Claudette died. The cold, loneliness, indifference have defeated her. The odor has not yet alerted the neighborhood. They do not even know that someone lives there. They do not even try to know.
This building could be mine. Yours. Everyone at Claudette close to home. Do not forget. Claudette if not ultimately exist only through the stench of his being finally died that resonates with that of those selfish souls who ignored.
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