He doesn’t know yet:
No one, on any night, can erect a flag in the city,
For the crowd constantly moves its flank.
Ah! The strange things of the city,
As always, without lifting a finger,
Have dragged one more person along
Into the feeling that “something will happen soon”…

The city’s novice admired a pair of pants on himself in
the mirror: a fold in the pants, a posture in the fold, an
undulation in the posture, a leg in the undulation. He
hastily stuck a face upon his face. Played with his eyebrow,
with his eye. Quick. Quick. He examined his eyes: they
must in no way resemble his childhood photographs. How
would he narrow those gullible cheeks? He struggled to
get rid of their redness. Stretched his jaw left and right a
little, the bone wasn’t where it was supposed to be. He left
his nape alone. Whatever he did, it wouldn’t work; this was
obvious from the mirror.

He carefully observed his posture; of course, he also
observed his observations of his posture. And what was
this flurry all about? This unreasonable hurry that split
his mind’s fields into congested labyrinths? Where was
his face in this mirror?

Quick! Quick! Don’t stop. Hide a cool-blooded sentence
in your pocket, for fear of running into flesh eaters ! Stick
the city’s chatter in your mouth. This is the last night. This.
Last. No more venturing out into the crowds. This. Last.
You must conquer the crowds and return to your mind’s
fields. This is the last. Quickly. Quickly. You shall finish
off their job this time! You will demand of the jaguars
an explanation for the cut on your nape. Go on, without
showing your haste, and immediately, go out!

For the city’s lock is an opiate
For…
It’s true
If the people of the streets had known this secret’s reality
No one would’ve rolled over and fallen into the city
The city…
Just like that…
The city is an unreal secret, by day as by night

The novice ventures out into the Street. The guileless
pansy on his collar melds with his mouth. Now he pays
attention to his gait, as if everyone was watching. When the
city swallows him whole, he won’t remember a single step.
Those who walk in the city are people who’ve forgotten
something somewhere. They have no mercy. They have
no mercy…

The novice, believing his hands strong
His words sharp
Believing his rump—Ah!—a harpoon
Poor soul…

Each sentence of yours remains wounded—
Even if you strike the city’s flesh
Your hurtful spots remain paralyzed.

Some people can hurt no one. Resolved as they may be,
their wrists snap just as they’re about to strike. Some
people are innately “human.” Therefore, those people are
everyone.

They won’t strike. They have never struck.

It is better to be struck. Pain belongs to everyone. Be
warned: it’s shared among people. Therefore, to strike and
to be struck are one. When such people have fallen into the
city, the news of fresh blood travels from ear to ear.