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01 juillet 2007

Texte de Gilles Moraton- GB

what are you thinking ?

What are you thinking when you aim at them, tell me ?

Tell me, what are you thinking ?

Between you and the other, at that moment, when you aim at him, there is a fraction of time that could hold all of eternity, if the other knew about it.

The fraction of time between the moment when you line up the cross hairs on the head and the moment when you pull the trigger.

Everything in the world held in this time, all of the memory of the world – like a grain of sand that contains galaxies.

If you try a little, all of the memory of the world.

If you try a little, streets from childhood and fleeting love, lizards under stones and a sandy garden, steep cities and sleepless nights, girls' dresses and glasses of wine, dogs, tractors, wounds, Don Quixote, departures, father, people who fall, around, tears that are shed, confrontations, dirty fighting, other places, others, worthless life.

Or maybe a single image that lasts, a wisp of black hair on a cheek.

Nothing, of course. You think about nothing. You think about nothing at this moment because if at this moment you started to think, the fraction of time might last and your hand would start to shake.

No, these are not the right reasons, you think about nothing because thinking at this particular moment would be, how can we say, out of your control, yes, out of your control. It's stupid but it's like that, you are caught in a process that is beyond you and that you never think about because to think would be to doubt and to doubt would be to fail. You were made for that, you say, you were made like that – ah ha, made –, according to a process that would be too complex to explain here and what's more, it is none of our business to know, everyone has a right to privacy, simply the result is there and heads explode.

Yet you were once young, a child even.

How does a child become a man like you ?

When you see a child, do you ever think that he could become a man like you ?

Do you know that you could search and search again, in the deepest, darkest corners of your mind, search until the end of your life without finding justification for that ?

Tell me, do you know that ?

Yes, you know it but there is only one place you say, one place for each person. Mine, you say again, is that one, not another, this place, this place was for me, reserved, don't touch, it's not by chance, it's me, we have to do things, and this place, that place that I hold and makes heads explode, I was lead to it, every instant, every hour, days, years, made, designed for that, and things too, the others, others' stories, others' lives, their instants and their hours, for a long time, the instants and the hours all work so that things come to that, me in this place, water in a cement canal, no outlet, it was that or washing new cars as they came off  the trains, without ever being able to buy one, a new car, you conclude.

But if water could spill out of the canal, no, not for you.

You, empty headed, elbows firmly planted, state of the art technique, absolute silence, holding your breath, on target, cross hairs, your finger, and the bullet flies, over there.

A fraction of time, again, but this one cannot possibly be rewound. What if the other knew, over there, the sea in winter, the texture of skin, the wind on

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