You walk your dog in the park. One black
car passes. Then another one, and then
another, but just the half of it. Strong smell of
gasoline. Perhaps this is why a red van
stops next to you, two guys rush out of
it wearing masks – one with the face of Saddam
and the other one like Balzac – and push
you inside. And all goes by the numbers:
duct tape over your mouth, sack smelling of poetry
on your head. They drive in an unknown direction.
You hear all, but you can’t see. The road is long and
only the ship’s horns hint for the inevitable future.
1 August 2012