le médecin était fou

It happened last night or evening depending on how you want to call the moment that lingers uneasily between the end of a working day and sleep
The train was starting and stopping and beeping as all trains should
Then the man started talking he said someone had lost their keys and he said his colleagues had jumped on the track to find them and we all started thinking of the man and of the keys and of a day that does not end and of our jobs and of being locked out of our home our heart our dreams
Soon he said the train could move again the keys the home and the dreams had been put back into the pocket


People in the train after work look at their feet their phones their hands your shoes, especially if they’re new
They want to be already home sitting eating sleeping
Time is too slow right now the brains are on pause the feet stumble and the hands hold or lie while the beggars pass by

Then the man started talking again he said someone had decided to go for a stroll on the tracks and was being followed or chased by colleagues
He said what a night and he laughed at his own joke about our unlucky train while the passengers well they prayed or laughed or complained
For some time the train stayed still then it moved to the next station just to be stuck again in the position of a waiting train while before us people were running around on the track chasing each other having a hell of a time
The beggars became more and more numerous crying or yelling always stinking
A fight started
Not a real fight with knuckles flying around carried by fists and explosions of teeth, eyes and bones
No
One of the beggars started saying out loud what all the passengers thought and felt of the previous one, the one that couldn’t stop pissing and shitting on himself
The one that couldn’t walk or wash or talk properly
With his swollen hands and his broken soul
The one yelling also had gigantic hands full of the same crack he was presently smoking
He also had a broken soul and a penniless life
He was a beggar too
He just considered himself of a superior class
Not as damaged as the half dead pooping guy who didn’t even listen to all that was said – one hand out asking for help while the other one tried to hold on to his falling pants
The fight turned into a battle and was impossible to locate
In our souls in the train in Paris during the twenty first century
The guy was crazy saying he deserved the money Poop was asking for because he was still not for long but still on the side of life and enough on the side of life to feel disgusted by the mere presence of the dying one and so disgusted right now smoking or drinking were going to be more of an effort than usual
The cry emerged, and sounded like something none of us had ever heard before – pure pain
The smell worse than before unbearable our hands scarves collars and hairs though stuck on our noses couldn’t help anymore
Death
It lasted a few stations the beggar dying the beggar yelling our noses our hands our souls numb
The train didn’t stop anymore the driver was not talking anymore the track was long lost
From a weak standing position the dying man had fallen back to the baby like pause on the ground rolling back and forth not by will but because of the movements of the flying train
No more stomach of Paris around us no more lights no more stars no more life
I think we never reached our destination