A sunday regular bin.

As often, on Sunday morning, I went there, then I came back. 

I loved going there in April not so much for exploring the innumerable world who flocked but more importantly to take my Weekly Valium. And it was only delivered from late April, when the beautiful day and a little less beautiful tourists return in droves. It looked like a trio of musicians. In fact, there were four (three of them more talent) that arose from the same position and sent into the streets to make a swing move a terminal illness. If by listening, not one of your muscles do got underway there were 18 emergency call. Gig Street, they were called. A singer-saxophonist round, black and American, Leonardo Blair, a guitarist and a bassist dry disillusioned. Listen spared half an hour, by far, the cost of an internship in a rebirthing lamasserie Drôme Haute. They danced the notes and wriggle your toes. So in thongs was going to the market just for them to be more comfortable for their weekly meeting of gigotage. 
Hear them entertained for the week. I still bought their CD for listening at home in case of serious crisis. Come September, they disappeared, maybe they hibernated at the bottom of I do not know what cave, what is certain is that if they continued to play, they never die of cold. I moved before them, listened: my toes gave away to their heart, I swear I can feel the stones of the street in thongs, beat time and raising her eyes could see clearly the shutters houses around do the same. Everyone got involved. And the sky cleared and opened people's hearts in unison with their chakras and the Universal Peace stormed onto the square with his fellow regiment, Perfect Love, Absolute Happiness, Harmony's Heavenly .. . All because of some well-blown sax notes.

Then I walked around the city before then leave, I returned garner as a wakeup call, a few notes, one or two chorus sax and I returned, exhilarated. 
This morning, after taking my pill, I went to sit in front of a Vichy Horchata (sweet salty did not make me afraid) Arquet the bar, you know, the one where tables and chairs are painted all colors, the little square dominated by the home of urban tranquility ... I passed the stall of my favorite vegetable market, I had the opportunity to ask him to postpone the date of our marriage I had used the excuse, not to hurt her feelings, she was well too pretty and that my morbid jealousy, I showed convinced, could not make her happy and singularly complicate things between us. She agreed but asked me to think again, a little. I had not known him to refuse this time. One week.I bought a share that had engulfed pissaladière walking and, of course, two or three small pieces of onions well oiled, came to ask nicely like two sparrows fragile on the front of my shirt. I, in passing, a mother reprimanded eye exceeded that came to rock a slap on the cheek of a girl, making her pay and her fear of having lost. I do not walk with the number of Dass on me, otherwise I would have called.

Then I went to sit on the terrace.

And that's where I saw her. Imagine the head of the iceberg when he saw the Titanic go for him. That I did exactly those eyes, and hotter. She was sitting with two reds and blues of mine and I turned slightly back. She held a cigarette in his left hand drawing above the chin. From the right, she wrote feverishly, on a thick book. It seemed as wrapped in a bubble, all his writing, all the words she nervously traced on paper. Given the thickness of the book, she had a bunch to say. She must have a thin thirties, dressed soberly in a white tunic, which showed broad shoulders and gnarled, and a short jean. His neck swept a braided ponytail quickly. Dark glasses on his nose. That's when she turned her head I saw a tear in his right eye, slide down his cheek, staining the white. So I watched. It suited me she can not see me. Thus, it does not feel the weight of my gaze insisting on his back.Anyway it seemed so inaccessible to the world around her. A plane could have crashed into the place, I'm sure she would not budge an inch. I stayed a long time as well as a cobra under hypnosis. The woman who wrote, in tears, then at that point ... when the table next to hers was empty, I went to finish my second drink. Over his shoulder, I managed to steal some words :"... I am told that our lives are not worth much and they pass in an instant, like wilting roses ... " it could be the beginning of a song, then further down the page ... my disenchantment brutal, unbearable for you, you will remain my beautiful love hurt ... "

The world, which is, as Wittgenstein wrote, everything that happens was this morning, a tidy universe. In perfect balance:

A singer was walking in the streets or thousands of foreign tourists to be smiling, a mother had hit her child with a violence to the extent of the love she bore him, a woman angrily engraved on the paper pain having to leave with, perhaps, a vague pleasure in rereading the sentences written and perfectly cooked pieces of onion were glued to the bright white of my shirt.

A commonplace of a Sunday morning regular bin, in fact ... As they say a certain guy.