Waters of Mars

The Arago tobacco bar is an abandoned and familiar place, indifferent and intimate, where one wishes to forget the seasons of Mars and the sulphurous breath of the glass doorways. The wandering customers bathe in an atmosphere of warm and saturated reflections, like in an aquarium. One of them scratches the golden reflections of a lottery ticket hoping to win a ticket to earth. But the hearth of the fireplace seems to want to tell us something else – it is a cold fireplace and its light is a green light. In the soot and ashes, the scattered letters surviving from the flames stand up again after having lost there a foot, there a loop, there a tail. Perhaps they fly away at last, wavering, and after having loaded the sky with hard and bitter words they will fall back on us, discharged by a cloud, in a shower of black dust.