Back home. Our heads in the asphalt sand and our fingers on the edge of the clumsy line, ready to hold up the next prefectural document authorising us to give a watery smile and a fake kiss, our hands in visor on the blurred horizon of our parisian perspectives, purring with spite, for lack of a copper-tipped helmet, the Greek coffee filter left on our noses to find once again the wet and threatening eyes of our fellow fortune hunters, future potential auxiliaries to the law…
Oh, joy!