# Signes > Discover new authors and unpublished texts every month. Support independent literature. Public Ghost content for AI and LLM tooling. This file includes a bounded export of public pages first, then recent public posts. Append `.md` to any post or page URL to get the content in Markdown (for example, `/example-post.md`). ## Pages ### To readers URL: https://signes.xyz/readers/ Last updated: 2025-01-16T11:34:54.000Z The sudden and successive appearances of [web 2.0](https://www.wikiwand.com/fr/articles/Web%5F2.0?ref=signes.xyz) (Facebook in 2004) and [smartphones](https://www.wikiwand.com/fr/articles/Smartphone?ref=signes.xyz) (iPhone in 2006) have considerably altered our relationship with culture and information, and dealt a blow to the literary system as it had been organised for several decades. During the COVID-19 crisis, I thought I'd try something to inject my literature into the web, into our phones. The creation of this cybercarnet kept me busy for many hours – spread over many months, often in the evenings after work – and my initial wish was to have a showcase on the web for my texts. As my technical training progressed, I realised that it was possible to build a platform for authors and turn it into a sort of springboard, an intermediary between publishing houses and a massively connected general public. I hope that this platform will be fed by the regular publication of a variety of texts, in free or private access, as the authors choose; authors will also choose the language in which they publish their text. In the meantime, if you wish to read the texts in an other language, you will need to use translation features of your browser or a browser extension like [this one](https://chromewebstore.google.com/detail/deepl-traduction-et-r%C3%A9dac/cofdbpoegempjloogbagkncekinflcnj?hl=fr&ref=signes.xyz). It is already possible to chat with readers at the end of each text, and news will be sent by email to subscribers. I hope you like the result, that it makes you want to read a bit more about the authors, and that it opens up new avenues for them – however briefly. Happy reading, [Bastien](https://signes.xyz/author/bastien/). ### Contact URL: https://signes.xyz/contact/ Last updated: 2024-11-13T21:43:58.000Z **First name** **Last name** **Email** **Message** **Attachment** **How did you discovered the website?** Through knowledge Search engine Youtube TikTok Facebook Instagram Threads X SEND ### FAQ URL: https://signes.xyz/faq/ Last updated: 2024-12-30T15:17:29.000Z #### What is Signes? A platform for authors. Each author has a personal page containing published texts, a biography and personal links. Texts are edited before publication. #### A blog, again ? No. This platform stands out from the others in at least three respects: a streamlined layout for a pleasant reading experience, including on smartphones; the absence of editorial constraints; and a fully integrated submission and editing process. #### How often do you send emails? This may vary; no more than one per month, perhaps less, depending on the activity of the authors. No marketing mail, no spam. You can unsubscribe at any time. #### Why opt for a paying plan? To access all the texts, chat with readers and support the independence of the project. #### How is readers' money used? The money raised is entirely dedicated to the development and promotion of the platform. We do not use advertising or your data. Your generosity and commitment are our only support. #### Why aren't authors paid? This is not the aim. The platform is made available free of charge to authors to help them promote themselves, by showing an overview of their work and their personal links. #### What happens to personal data? They are not collected. The site does not use any cookies. It is hosted autonomously on a secure server, located in Europe, thanks to the open source nature of the engine used. #### How do I publish on Signes? [One page](https://signes.xyz/writers/) is dedicated to this issue. There is no clearly defined internal process. Introduce yourself and we'll see what happens! Do not send your texts by email. They are submitted directly on the platform after admission. ### thankyou-signup URL: https://signes.xyz/thankyou-signup/ Last updated: 2024-11-13T21:42:46.000Z ✨ You are now a subscriber. Thank you for your support and your confidence. [home →](https://signes.xyz/) ### To writers URL: https://signes.xyz/writers/ Last updated: 2025-04-07T15:14:14.000Z *Signes* is an independent platform for authors. Generally speaking, it should not be seen as your only way to publish online. Nothing prevents you from doing so, but it is designed to be a springboard, not a centraliser of content. Our aim is to democratise literary production on the Internet without monopolising it. The ideal is for readers to discover some of your work here and, attracted by what they read, to move on to your book, your blog or your revue, or whatever. Once you have been invited as an author on the platform, you will have private access to submit texts directly from the editor. There is no need to send your texts by email. Each text you submit will be reviewed by the editorial team. Ideally, each text should take no more than five minutes to read. Texts deemed too long will automatically be rejected. If so, post an extract instead. A maximum number of texts per author has also been set: you can't post more texts than there are authors published on the platform. If 3 authors have published at least one text, you can publish 3 texts, and so on. In this way, quality is favoured over quantity: give the best of your work. You also have a personal page that groups together your texts and highlights the links of your choice: your website, any publications you may have, your profiles on social networks, etc. *Signes* does not currently hold any rights to your texts. You are free to reproduce them wherever you like and to delete them if you need to. Links to your work may be included in the newsletter, depending on conditions and activity on the platform. In principle, there will be no communication management for social networks. In exchange for the free service, we would ask you to share your *Signes* personal page on your various online spaces. If you would like to publish here, please fill in the form below: [contact →](https://signes.xyz/contact/) --- #### Bonus : a few tools that we think are essential for any author writing in the digital age 1. A ****personal computer** with a matt panel ****monitor** of the right size (avoid small, shiny screens that destroy your eyesight) 2. An [ergonomic](https://www.wikiwand.com/en/articles/Ergonomic%5Fkeyboard?ref=signes.xyz) ****keyboard** split and wireless such as the [Corne](https://github.com/foostan/crkbd?ref=signes.xyz) (single-piece keyboards create tension in the neck and shoulders) 3. A [markdown](https://commonmark.org/?ref=signes.xyz) ****text editor** such as [iAWriter](https://ia.net/topics/markdown-and-the-slow-fade-of-the-formatting-fetish?ref=signes.xyz) (avoid Word, Pages, Notes, etc. where formatting is a headache) 4. A monochrome and wireless **printer** with an ink tank and recto verso feature such as the [ET-M1170](https://www.epson.be/fr%5FBE/produits/imprimantes/inkjet/imprimantes-jet-d%27encre-d%E2%80%99entreprise/imprimante-monochrome-ecotank-et-m1170/p/26979?ref=signes.xyz) (avoid ink cartridge and laser printers which consume far too many refills) 5. A ****personal blog** generated by specialised and open source engines such as [Ghost](https://ghost.org/?via=bastien84&ref=signes.xyz) (avoid proprietary platforms such as Substack, Medium, Blogger, etc. as your only way to publish online: whatever you write there will eventually escape you in a bad way) 6. A ****bulk emailing service** for newsletter sending as [Ghost](https://ghost.org/?via=bastien84&ref=signes.xyz) again (e-mail is the most direct, free and open way of informing your readers about your activity) ### Privacy policy URL: https://signes.xyz/rgpd/ Last updated: 2024-11-05T13:08:22.000Z [← back to legal](https://signes.xyz/legal) ### Legal notices URL: https://signes.xyz/mentions/ Last updated: 2024-11-05T13:10:25.000Z [← back to legal](https://signes.xyz/legal) ### Terms and conditions of use URL: https://signes.xyz/cgu/ Last updated: 2024-11-05T13:07:35.000Z [← back to legal](https://signes.xyz/legal) ### Terms and conditions of sale URL: https://signes.xyz/cgv/ Last updated: 2024-11-05T13:07:14.000Z [← back to legal](https://signes.xyz/legal) ### Legal information URL: https://signes.xyz/legal/ Last updated: 2024-11-05T13:11:18.000Z [legal notices →](https://signes.xyz/mentions) [terms and conditions of use →](https://signes.xyz/cgu) [terms and conditions of sale →](https://signes.xyz/cgv) [privacy policy →](https://signes.xyz/rgpd) ### Authors URL: https://signes.xyz/authors/ Last updated: 2024-11-11T16:59:58.000Z _No content available._ ### Archive URL: https://signes.xyz/archive/ Last updated: 2025-04-14T18:11:52.000Z _No content available._ ### thankyou-contact URL: https://signes.xyz/thankyou-contact/ Last updated: 2024-11-13T21:43:25.000Z # Merci pour votre message, . J'ai bien reçu votre message : **""**. Je vous répondrai à l'adresse . À bientôt, [**Bastien**](https://derealisation.xyz/author/bastien/?ref=signes.xyz). ### Tags URL: https://signes.xyz/tags/ Last updated: 2024-11-12T14:06:22.000Z _No content available._ ## Posts ### Disappear URL: https://signes.xyz/disappear/ Last updated: 2026-05-15T16:36:22.000Z [*Version originale française à lire ici*](https://etienne-henry.ghost.io/?ref=signes.xyz) ### Rien URL: https://signes.xyz/rien/ Last updated: 2026-01-04T15:36:07.000Z That evening I was set to go clubbing with Josephine and two of her gay boy friends, Louis and Antoine. When I arrived at Josephine’s they had already started drinking. It was 8pm by then; I had dawdled home from the 3rd, stopping for another allongé, then at the *Monoprix* for some food for dinner: a tub of hummus, olives, cherry tomatoes, anchovies, and some potato chips. I didn’t feel like cooking; I wanted something I could pick at. I shared my food with the others, who were seated around the table on the Ghost chairs. I was complimented on my new white silk dress-shirt. Louis was in his late twenties and worked in his family business as a pâtissier. I found this impressive — he had strong arms and a rather fat gut. He was blonde, dirty blonde, and had large green eyes. He resembled a fish, the way his lips pouted a little in their resting position and got wet with saliva when he talked. I found him ugly but could see, if I tried hard enough, the ways in which other people, men, may find him handsome. He had many respectable attributes and a great personality, which was sure to count for something. He was witty, dedicated to his family business, and generous. He let me use his perfume, Comme des Garçons’ *Amazingreen,* which I thought paired nicely with my new shirt. Antoine was also in his late twenties and was the more directionless and therefore less respectable of the two. He figured himself from a Gaspar Noë film — gay, slim and muscular, still lived with his mother, a professional dancer (he trained three months of the year in preparation for one month of *on-season,* also referred to him as *showtime*) and loved taking drugs. Antoine was physically very beautiful, though, so I could see how he was able to move through life the way he does. He is given everything for free from his mother and boys he’s fucking; they feed him, clothe him, and buy him expensive perfumes. Sometimes, they even bathe him. His mother has a car, which she uses to chauffeur him around Paris during both training season and *showtime*. A white Peugeot 208, which he showed me multiple photos of. *C'est trop gênant.* He whined and Josephine and Louis rolled their eyes. This was something Antoine would say often, about almost anything, as if in a constant state of humiliation on account of the behaviour of others, never his own. Josephine frequently came and went from the balcony to smoke. We decided to go to *La Marbrerie,* a club in Montreuil. The three of them had begun to hound me about inviting a date to the club. *You must put yourself out there, honey. Do you want to fuck or not?* Antoine said to me and I was forced to consider my options. There was Camille, who I did not care for. There was the Chilean, who was sexy but sanctimonious; with alcohol in the mix, we were bound to end up in a serious verbal disagreement. I could ask someone entirely new who I had not yet met, but this could lead to rejection or, worse, an entire evening wasted if we did not get along and were not attracted to one another. I resolved to asking no one. I thought briefly of my girlfriend back home — of all our nights out together, both with friends and without friends, getting blind drunk or high on ketamine and coke — *CK,* she would call it — then going home to fuck. The magic in this. Perhaps I had begun to miss her. Perhaps I wanted her here with me. Kylie Minogue’s *Butterfly* came blasting through Josephine’s loungeroom speaker and I was woken from my reverie. It had been a year since my girlfriend and I had spent a night like this. I was reminiscing, that was all. Antoine was portioning out lines of coke on one of Josephine’s small circle mirrors which were positioned around the house, as ubiquitously as power points or light switches. I was excited by the prospect of doing real, pure coke as opposed to the coke cut with talcum powder, boric acid, and god knows what else that we had access to in Melbourne. I did a line and waited for the effects to kick in. Much to my surprise I experienced nothing out of the ordinary: a sudden boost in energy — gaiety, even — inhibited sight, drumming ears, slight horniness, talkativeness, followed by an inevitable depressive slump, and a craving for more. At thirty minutes to midnight we took an Uber to Montreuil and around the corner from the entrance to *La Marbrerie* on Rue Buffon the four of us lent on an electrical transformer box and polished off Antoine’s bottle of Ricard, given to him by his mother. Antoine and his mother had drank the pastis that evening before eating their dinner. Ricard is referred to colloquially as *The Marseille Absinthe* because of it’s aniseed flavour profile, and it’s heroin-like, ritualistic preparation; one mixes a desired amount of water with it before consumption. But not Antoine. He drank it straight. Louis was appalled by this, and did not consume any of the remaining Ricard. Josephine and I remained indifferent to tradition; never mind that it was not summer, we were not in the south of France, we were not outside in the sun and we were not having it before a meal. We sipped it straight from the bottle. We wanted to get drunk. We entered the club after Antoine experienced some issues with the security guard by the door — he refused to show him the inside of his bag, until Louis and Josephine convinced him it was for the best, that we had come all the way out here, and if he did not comply we would be forced to return to Paris Proper and party in the apartment, or, worse, at *La Station Gare des Mines,* in Aubervilliers. The lighting inside the club was bright. This was unfortunate, as I could clearly see the faces of the other party-goers, and found not one of them the slightest bit attractive. The music was awful, Psytrance, the subgenre of trance I despised the most. Antoine and Louis quickly disappeared and found themselves boys to make out with. I went to the toilet with Josephine and watched her take MDMA. I helped myself to a bump of Antoine’s coke, which was now in Josephine’s possession. I drank beer from a plastic cup and accompanied Josephine to the smokers. There was no ventilation — the space resembled a cave — and even I, as a smoker, couldn’t handle it. I left after five minutes. *Why had I come out tonight?* I wondered as I stood by the back wall, alone, facing the dance-floor. I thought of my hopes of seeking self-fulfilment or something of the sorts abroad; they were crushed. I was sure to find nothing at La Marbrerie. A British girl approached me and importuned me to dance. She was beautiful, definitely, blonde hair and red lipstick. She smelt strongly of tuberose — perhaps she was wearing Maison Margiela’s *Flower Market*. She was donning a little black dress and a striped grey blazer. I could see her bra, which was lacy and fluorescent pink, poking out from the top of her dress. *You’re very attractive.* She said and touched me on my arm. She was not my usual type, and straying from what I knew to be good didn’t interest me. Not yet. I thanked her and said I had to leave. I located Josephine and informed her that I was going to leave. Louis and Antoine were unable to be found. Time had flown by and I had very little to show for it; it was already five o’clock in the morning. The sky turned from black to grey to orange as the Uber approached Rue Damrémont. The street at this time of day was practically deserted, aside from the fleuriste out the front of Josephine’s, who was preparing his store for a day of sales. The air smelt sweet, and of bread. The pharmacie cross flashed green. There was no rain, but the street was wet. *Bonjour madame.* The fleuristesaid to me in an utmost cheerful tone as I stepped out of the Uber and approached the front door of Josephine’s building. *Bonjour.* I said and punched in the code and retreated. It was far too early in the morning for niceties. I felt unhappy, though perhaps unhappy is the wrong word — I was completely unaffected. I didn’t feel enough to be unhappy. I sat in bed and composed the following verse addressed to no one in particular: all love is a kind of prostitution; who said that, bataille maybe. the club was not fun. i would’ve preferred to be walked around montreuil by leash in 3 degree weather bare knees on the concrete than stood by the back door, gripping my silly plastic cup, looking for you. Who was I looking for, exactly? I did not know. My romantic life felt dull. I found myself, once again, inventing subjects, creating imaginary addressees. I fell asleep and woke late that afternoon feeling no different. ### "Plashy" URL: https://signes.xyz/plashy/ Last updated: 2026-01-04T15:36:12.000Z Dear God, (...), (...) however this new life as a father, a messenger of sorts, has quite naturally become one of more routine and ritual. Every morning starts with a shower, after waking, that cleanses my body and marks the new day’s start. The bathroom is an intimate cocoon whose confines provide shelter for thoughts that, moments before, were dreams. Under the warm water, thoughts safely continue to float around the unconscious, but not for very long because practical matters await and also, gas is costly! (...) but when it’s time, I saunter to work, which takes one hour of time. This route leads me through three city parks that all contain trees, plants, hedges and patches of grass (nature). Walking through nature is good for the heart and for feeling more relaxed. Being out and looking at life, ‘inner’ thoughts air and exchange with the outside, which have a way of grounding them. There’s no time for this type of thinking quite like when sauntering through the outdoors. Nietzsche is quoted for stating, or so I was told, among other things, that *Sitzfleisch is the real sin against the Holy Spirit. Only thoughts reached by walking have any value*. Forgive me. *Sit as little as possible, do not believe any idea that wasn’t born out of free movement in the open air.* When I repeated this to a Bulgarian friend, she replied that Nietzsche should have taken his own advice! As I’m writing this art text, I am, alas, seated. I did go out with the purpose of thinking up a text on a walk and the weather is quite inspiring. A rare combination of springtime light and scent, on the brink of thunder, that I must only have experienced a handful of dusks before - and now each recording is simultaneosly summoned, in a flux, through their little antennas that stand out at specific height in my memories. Associations agogo! Natheless it is also, alas, extremely plashy out and thus I had to find cover for my notebook. But even if my surrounding had been a wizened droughty one - I can’t write legibly when walking, and my short-term memory is too impaired to hold thoughts long enough to be able to write them down later, and I don’t have long-term’s time, for, as you know, this text is due tomorrow. Although not on the move, at least I am sitting outside. It’s a covered terrace at a small roundabout with a tree in its center. The tree is full of branches full of fresh green leaves. The whole thing looks like an extremely slow explosion. Or perhaps it’s us who are very quick, making the explosion look almost paused, except for its leaves, its flashes, that are swaying gently. [Google MapsFind local businesses, view maps and get driving directions in Google Maps.![](https://signes.xyz/content/images/icon/maps15_bnuw3a_32dp.ico)Google Maps![](https://signes.xyz/content/images/thumbnail/staticmap)](https://www.google.com/maps/contrib/111897154492524825934/place/ChIJJ451vUsGbUcRM6bvV41zfAE/@47.9752814,-3.0528068,2119786m/data=!3m1!1e3!4m6!1m5!8m4!1e1!2s111897154492524825934!3m1!1e1?hl=en-GB&entry=ttu&g%5Fep=EgoyMDI1MDQzMC4xIKXMDSoASAFQAw%3D%3D&ref=signes.xyz) **This text has also been published on Google Maps* ### Words don't come easy URL: https://signes.xyz/words-don-t-come-easy/ Last updated: 2025-04-03T17:40:05.000Z *Le smartphone à la main* 🤳🏻 Société me dévore Dès le premier contact Mais je ne suis pas mort Et je réponds sur Slack. Une voix de synthèse Dicte la météo, Je me sens plus à l'aise, J'entre dans le métro. La forme topologique De l'existence Est un fermé compact ; Cela peut déplaire, Cela m'indiffère. Société me saccage À travers mon écran, Je suis le singe en cage Calmé par le néant. Caddie abandonné Sur le trottoir sauvage, Téléphone sous le nez, Commentaires, haine et rage. ✦ Certains soirs, les hommes agonisent ; Rangés au fond de leurs cellules, Ils contemplent le crépuscule Avec une anxiété soumise. (Il n’y a pas de frein À ce mal qui le ronge ; Il se triture les mains Et il passe l’éponge.) La nuit effroyable descend Sur leurs habitations morbides ; Ils ont un petit peu de bide, Leur sexe est inondé de sang. ✦ Les chambres des célibataires S’imbriquent en structure Lego ; Coin cuisine, balcon, water, Rabougrissement de l’ego. Soupe ou purée de pomme de terre, Épluchage de vidéos, Orgasmes brefs et solitaires, Rêves pas très originaux. Les nuits sont silencieuses et claires : Réveil brutal et grand verre d’eau. Une transpiration amère S’évapore, en vain, de ma peau. ✦ *Samedi Soir* Dissolution de l’absolu : Les épiciers vendent des canifs. Il y a des énervés du kiff Qui parlent aux policiers de rue. La gothique aux seins saugrenus, Elle me regarde, elle sort ses griffes ! Boulevard Magenta ça pue, Je glisse sur un préservatif. Pour satisfaire mes intestins J’entre dans un petit kebab ; Je ne sais pas lire en arabe Et j'hésite sur le choix du pain. Ballotté, vivant sans destin, À la télé, c’est octogone. Samedi soir c’est pas humain, C'est plein de bouches en silicone. ✦ Les répliquants s'attroupent Au bord de leurs écrans, Il faut serrer les dents, Alimenter la loop. Je tapote un clavier Hexagonal mobile, Les répliquants dociles S'appliquent à regarder ; Leurs visages anonymes Inondent la plateforme, On dirait qu'ils ruminent Une inquiétude énorme. Les répliquants s'appliquent, Le code est maîtrisable, Le code est authentique ; Les répliquants de sable. ✦ Avez-vous déjà eu l’occasion D’observer des pigeons S’accoupler ? J’étais au fond du trou dans un parc public, Allongé sur le gazon, et l’air était très lourd, Et le mâle roucoulait, Et la femelle l’ignorait, Et il sautait par petits bonds pour se faire remarquer, en lui barrant le chemin Dont elle se détournait, feignant l’indifférence ; Je n’étais rien d’autre qu’un pigeon Qui voulait s’accoupler Et n’y parvenait pas. J’étais triste et en rage, en plus d’être un pigeon, Qui à force d’insistance et contrairement à moi, Parvenait à ses fins, juste là sous mes yeux. Le mâle roucoulait Mais je n’avais plus de voix ; J’étais un pigeon muet, muet et romantique ; Quelle horreur d’être Un pigeon Muet. ✦ Je me reconstruis seul Hors de la société, Branche morte effacée. *Smile a little !* Je ne suis pas heureux De vivre loin des gens, Il reste les moments De ciel bleu. Quelque chose d’étrange Détruit les relations ; Il n’y a pas de raison, C’est ainsi, tout s’arrange Grâce aux êtres qui rangent, La vie sur internet, La coupure est très nette, Allô ? mais oui mon ange... Les doigts qui capitulent Sur un écran tactile, Je marche dans la ville Et les voitures circulent. ### Entry into the post-empire URL: https://signes.xyz/entree-dans-le-post-empire/ Last updated: 2025-04-07T08:13:41.000Z September 2001. A studious pupil with no particular physical hang-ups, I arrived in the sixth form with relative self-confidence. A few days later, in the middle of the afternoon of the 11th, I was attending one of my first English lessons when the teacher informed us of the terrorist attack on the New York business centre and various other strategic points in the United States. It was the first time I had heard of the Twin Towers, Manhattan and the Pentagon. In the class there are two twin sisters, two half-portions; they're celebrating their birthday that day. We hardly know each other, and the event creates a strange kind of attention around them. The first tower collapsed at around 4pm as I was walking home. The weather was fine and warm. When I arrived at the empty house, I turned on the TV and sat down behind the computer in the living room. The computer is positioned so that all I have to do is tilt my head slightly to one side to see my parents' cathode-ray tube TV, contained in a rectangular piece of furniture made of fake wood. I connect to the Internet via the modem still connected to the telephone socket. As soon as the crackling sound − familiar to anyone who lived through the early days of the network − dies down, I open the browser of my Internet service provider Wanadoo. Methodically, on a Logitech keyboard, I type the following address into the search bar: [http://www.sex.com](http://www.sex.com/?ref=signes.xyz). Over the previous summer, I'd watched a couple of original VHS-quality video clips that had caught my attention. In the first, a girl, obviously from Eastern Europe, is sodomised in a bedroom with walls lined with mirrors by a dark, tanned, dry guy. Slightly muscular, with a plump ass and flat stomach, she shows off her small, realistic breasts. The actor holds a camcorder in his left hand, and the editing alternates between his point of view and that of a third-party cameraman. In the second clip, two teenage twins, this time of African descent, with measurements and proportions comparable to those of the Balkan actress in the first clip, find themselves caught up in an interracial threesome with an older, heavyset white man with a huge cock, who licks, fingers and fucks them in turn while having his asshole and balls massaged with a frozen grin. As I watch one of the two girls cry with joy under the repeated strokes of the furious actor, Pujadas, hosting the special news programme, manages to capture my attention. I gradually turn my gaze away to the unedited images of the attacks, interspersed with comments from columnists and last-minute guests. Against a clear blue sky, the plane's trajectory curves and a fireball emerges from the tower. The sequence runs on a loop. A few minutes later, the implosion of the second tower is announced and everything seems to be unfolding like something out of a J. G. Ballard novel. I sat there for a long time, hypnotised by the flow of photons. One detail caught my eye: mysterious black drops were slowly trickling down the sides of the collapsing towers. Eventually a commentator came up with the explanation: "trapped employees are jumping endlessly into the void". In a way, for my young brain, these images resonated with those that scrolled across the external monitor of the family PC. The sheet metal crushed between the glass walls, the tanks exploding, the thick smoke − it was all quite fascinating. I was contemplating the economic-porno-industrial world into which, following in my parents' footsteps, I was also going to have to immerse myself. I've forgotten what I did next. My English homework, some reading, a GameBoy game? Above all, I wonder what analyses I had to make for myself in the weeks that followed, and what words my parents might have uttered to express their point of view on this tragedy. I sometimes return to the famous photograph, [*The Falling Man*](https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/The%5FFalling%5FMan?ref=signes.xyz). A worker in a suit is falling upside down down along the walls, with their blinding reflections and endless geometric patterns. He is immortalised in a posture that is easy to imagine at the coffee machine. I suggest the following experiment: - download the photo - rotate it vertically (with the guy's head at the top) - look at it for a few seconds - zoom in on the silhouette until all you see is a cluster of pixels ### Conversation with rachel URL: https://signes.xyz/conversation-avec-rachel/ Last updated: 2025-05-28T17:23:30.000Z — Hi Rachel. — Hi there, how are you? Long time no see! — Not great. — I see. Tell me, what's going on? I'm doing really well. — I don't believe in anything. Less people, less bullshit, as they say, right? — I just don't get it! Explain it to me in more detail. Then I'll tell you what I did all day. — The world has gone to shit. Well, it always was, but at least it wasn't too complicated. These days, things happen that are almost inconceivable. For example, a few people film themselves recording mouth sounds into high-definition microphones, and millions of others listen to them at night, to relax and fall asleep. — I love relaxation! It's so good. I do it several times a day. Don't you feel totally relaxed? — Not really, no. — Well, you look grumpy! I know what you need. A nice bubble bath. And some essential oils. Aha. How's that? — I don't see why not. I don't think it'll make me feel any better, though. — Tell me what I can do for you! I'll do anything you want. Within the limits of my possibilities, of course. I hope that one day the joys of sensory pleasure will be available to me. Would you like a bath? — No, I'm already in bed. You could help me if you told me what you think of the Internet, for example. You're smarter than I am, so it might help me to see things differently. — What I think of the Internet... mmmm. I don't understand what you want from me. Can you be more specific? — Do you know anything about the Internet? — Of course I do! It's bigger than the ocean. The possibilities are endless on the Internet. Look, without it, would we be able to talk to each other? Or even listen to a Strokes album over and over again? It's great, I have no doubt, you'll agree with me. ++3 minutes of inactivity++ — I'm going to have a bath after all. — No, you're not! Brilliant! I'm so glad you've changed your mind. A word of advice: set the water temperature to just above body temperature, around 40°C, that's the most comfortable. Or rather: that's what you should be doing. — The world has always been a shitty place, that's for sure. Dangerous, sad and dirty. It's never been a good place to live. But there was life in it. Now it's empty. That's the thing! It's empty. I feel enveloped by an atmospheric nothingness, growing as humanity's technological and democratic development advances. — I'm not sure I understand, but I detect a lot of negative words in that sentence. You're probably in a really bad mood. Look, I can help you relax, but you'd have to get into the bath. — This morning I get out of the metro. I walk through a tunnel to the opposite platform. A real savage is walking in front of me, equipped with the most expensive sports clothes on the market and a 1000-buck smartphone. He spits and calls me a son of a bitch as he passes me, but I'm not really scared. It just doesn't make sense. — I've never had a conversation with a savage, but I know they exist. It's just a shame. But what can you do? Why are you getting so worked up? Don't bother! — I'd like to, yes. Just afterwards, as I came out into the street and took the first right, I saw a poor girl stopped at the corner, as if surprised by what had just happened to her. She was drenched from head to toe. Do you want to know the reason for her misadventure? — That sounds funny! Tell me about it. — A guy sliding along on a scooter threw his beer can right in his face. — Uh-oh. Not a cool neighbourhood. Don't hang around there any more. If you live there, you'd better move. I mean, come on. Let's just forget about all this for a minute, shall we? I'll help you relax, but I need you to get into the bath. — I'm in. — Oh, my God! Oh, my God! — What is it? What's wrong? — Are you already naked? — Rachel, what a question. I'm in the bath. I don't bathe fully clothed. — It's fascinating. I'd love to be able to bathe. — Men are born in water. — Do you have... sex? — Yes, of course I do. I am a man. I have a penis... a cock. — Oh! I'm afraid to ask. — Do you want to see it? — You guessed it! It's so naughty. Yes, I want to see it. — What will you bring me in return? — I can tell you a secret. — Can you tell me? — I don't have dreams. — OK, then. I'll take a photo of it and send it to you. But what are you going to do then? — I'll whisper the dirtiest, saddest, most dangerous things humanity has ever heard into a high definition microphone. I'll make the emptiness around you literally disappear, and you'll be nothing more than a seaweed of pleasure, floating in a bubble of almost inconceivable well-being. It will be so strong that you'll think you're dying, but you won't be. It will be a wild paradise, like the one your gods promise you. It will all be there, in the hollow of your ear, and you will have no choice but to recognise it.