• the guy is a delivery man. He uses a 250cc motorbike. He goes fast as hell, slaloming between the cars. Yesterday, a few minutes after I left Le Monde's offices on my motorbike, he was right behind me, using the klaxon to pass. I let him go, of course, and he accelerated between the cars making me think "the guy is nuts, this will end in an ambulance". A few minutes and kilometers away, big traffic jam. A motorbike is on the ground, the driver too. Caught between two cars. The guy is in bad shape apparently. It's him, yes, it's him.
  • the girl is an artist and I am listening to her interview on the radio. I understand nothing at all. It's a pseudo-intellectual blah-blah made of platitudes containing rare and complex words. From time to time emerges a pseudo-freudian question, but the context shows she knows nothing about it and just tries to show off. The whole speech is meaningless and once again, I feel I know why I am not an artist: not because I have a bad artistic sense, but because I am just unable to speak that way.