I look around with the all-seeing attention of a sleepwalker. The first stretch of the walkway to the other side of the freeway is a path that runs steeply down a gulley and under a concrete bridge. The noise of the cars, trapped and amplified by the bridge, is thunderous. I run, trip. The path peters out into grass and I have to ascend a steep bank and jump a low wall whose presence there in the middle of nowhere, next to a gulley, doesn’t seem to relate to any civilization. More paths lead out from this wasteland and behind is the freeway, the chaos of the whole world. I don’t need to get closer to know that I’m not going to find anything here. Empty stretches of land with huge billboards, a junkyard, a used car lot surrounded by barbed wire, full of small flags flapping frenetically in the wind. Silent, non-functioning factories. About seven hundred meters away the city reappears. I see the signs of supermarkets, the small stores from which emerge women carrying packages. I don’t even bother to look at the street numbers. I go back down under the bridge, where I wait until the noise and the certainty of being about to lose it become unbearable. When I get out of here, I say to myself in an attempt to get back the thread, when I get out of here, I’ll call Michel and tell him to come and help me.

Myotragus

MYOTRAGUS