Written on a Train - Angoulême - Binic, 2023.
We’re betting from a safe distance. We all bet — sometimes out loud, sometimes to ourselves.
We bet on kids crammed onto the balcony of a shabby flat, working some seasonal job by the sea.
We bet on rival gangs, on the mafia, on politicians... on the one ready to jump from the seventh floor, on the sociopath downstairs with the scrawny dog.
We bet on crooked cops, on the lovers, the loveless, the philosophers in class, the waiters, the cooks...
Once a week, we bet on whether the left or the right will win.
We bet on the ball, the dice, and some on the cross or the triangle.
We bet from every corner of the world — east and west, north and south.
Will the kids get hurt again? Maybe they will, maybe they won’t.
We bet... we bet on defeat, on victory, on power, on democracy, on shoes, on walnut trees, on salami, on cheese, on yogurt, on a Jaguar, on a broken-down Toyota...
We bet in the morning, in the evening, on the street, in the room, on the roof — loudly, under our breath.
We bet on our enemies, our friends, our relatives, our neighbors...
We keep betting until death, holding on to that sliver of hope — no matter how small — that things might still turn out right.
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