Cannibalism

Cannes stinks. I smell the flesh of garbage, the meat, the sweat. Flowers are dead, long live the stench. But it feels good. Smells means I breathe, I walk, I think. Tonight I roll the streets, the clouds are bugging, it feels like raining and the city lies down as a corpse. Dead icons stamped all over the place, stars threw from the sky and preserved like old memories. Shops, restaurant, entire buildings! Everything here is eaten by the ghosts of the silver screen. Tonight, Cannes is a giant asleep. The Festival is nothing but a distant boat, sailing toward us, slowly bringing the tide of the hypnotized crowd. A man is starving behind the train station. I dreamed of flood, but that already happened. We always look for something new from old bones.