Maman died today; c’est comme ça.
. . . and later, all that remained to hope is that they should greet me with howls of
execration . . .’
And that the world knows its salary better than its last name; c’est comme ça.
And that while we achieve financial stability, the despair of the world grows until
the death of all hope; c’est comme ça.
And that the sun sets only for those who feel not misery, nor anguish
. . . and for those who know their names, the sun illuminates them up until the
moment it leaves them, tanned with the darkened complexion of death; c’est com-
And that thought, in all its abstraction obscurity, can be reduced to ashes by the
very technology which its applications create; the bastard son of thought and
money holds up culpable.
And that the only mother that we know
is misery, of which humanity is a prophet son; c’est comme ça.
And that the well-educated writer illustrates misfortune which he’s never known,
but of which he imagines and describes, decorated with a vast vocabulary and wit-
ty metaphors, brought to him by the expensive education for which the wealth of
his family paid. And all the while and man, who’s incapable of finding the same
clever analogies, but who’s engulfed in the feelings which the writer imagines,
lies starving in the street. Staring out at him from the window of his local café, the
writer observes the misfortune of the poor like a child who regards a fish in the
sea. In thinking of the life of the fish, the fresh air of good fortune and happiness
inflates his lungs and allows him but to float on the surface of the vast and mys-
terious waters of misfortune, incapable of seeing into the darkness of its depths;
c’est comme ça.
And that when one moves; when one tries to change what they see, they sink in
the quicksand of destiny up to their eyes, so that they can still see what hasn’t
changed, what remains in misery.
And that the hungry children, the pregnant women without hope, they make our
world; they remind us that we’re one in solidarity
that everyone is hungry, that everyone is without hope.
And tomorrow . . .
The world, it won’t get better.
It will remain the world . . . as simple and as indifferent.
c’est comme ça.