Looking up at the appropriate time at night, you may see: a jet plane burns silently in the sky, condensed with neat and straight tiny lights rippling on the fuselage and wingtips. Silence is one thing: human isolation, modern urban isolation. The plane caught fire and was gone. The other will replace it.
Looking down, Paris is right next to you. In the evening is Paris. Sodium lamps stain the limestone with a sickly amber color. Those baroque roads radiate diagonally, suggesting that the whole thing is either broken or cobwebs. Gather. These streets are where potential passengers are standing by the side of the road, the metal of the hot engine is ticking on the fuel pump, someone is waiting, and then on strike.
The night phone turned me into a small hot pot. It's hard to talk about it without getting bogged down in the boring poems of the black novel, if you don't light up the imaginary Gallois and stare at the imaginary river, then go home alone to a studio apartment, a chessboard. You are a taxi driver and there is a killer loose in the city. Your past life is vague and you are an outsider, so you are forced to catch them, but you also have to make a living: fares, tips, gas bills, countless clocks. As you move around the city map to pick up tasks and check potential customers, the game takes place in a conversation. Maybe you will find a suspect behind the cab. There may be some interesting sayings that are completely random. The whole process is procedural, so the story is always new, but always familiar, with half-memorized faces and half-memory fragments of the story. May be a bit like a real taxi driver.
