Le matin
Ouvrant sans hésitation la portière droite de la DS, je m’assoie sur le fauteuil du passager. A la place du conducteur, courbé sur le volant, est un homme au visage de cerf, dont les grands bois raclent le plastique souple du plafond. Impassible dans son long imper sombre, il ne tourne pas la tête vers moi, me considère simplement du coin de l’oeil. Une gitane fume à ses fines lèvres brunes. Je ressors, incommodé autant par la fumée que par l’air de tristesse qui emplie l’habitacle.
Ben dis-donc, tu fais de sacrés rêves! Je ne me souviens jamais de mes rêves, c’est bizarre , non?
gros bisous
Les cerfs au volant… Les cerfs-volants… Soit tu écoutes trop Benjamin Biolay, soit tu fais des rêves en rapport à l’enfance, mon ami André… 🙂
Non seulement les cerfs-volants mais en plus, ils sont dans une déesse, c’est un comble !
Your blog is great. It’s hard to find blogs with good content and people talking about Sherlock Holmes, these days! I have a new blog and a new website if you want to come leave me a comment or two! May I put a link to this blog of yours on mine? My name is Jan Manzer and I’m new to blogging. Would appreciate you checking out my site at Jan Manzer dot com. I tried a light-hearted spoof on this new site about my favourite detective, Mr. S. Holmes. I took some of the stories and did a search-and-replace on my own name. Kinda weird but kinda cool at the same time. Let me know what you think. you could try A SCANDAL IN BOHEMIA first. it’s located at Jan Manzer & the Scandal in Bohemia dot com. Here’s a sample excerpt from that story with my name inserted: « I had seen little of Jan Manzer lately. My marriage had drifted us away from each other. My own complete happiness, and the home-centred interests which rise up around the man who first finds himself master of his own establishment, were sufficient to absorb all my attention, while Jan Manzer, who loathed every form of society with his whole Bohemian soul, remained in our lodgings in Baker Street, buried among his old books, and alternating from week to week between cocaine and ambition, the drowsiness of the drug, and the fierce energy of his own keen nature. He was still, as ever, deeply attracted by the study of crime, and occupied his immense faculties and extraordinary powers of observation in following out those clues, and clearing up those mysteries which had been abandoned as hopeless by the official police. From time to time I heard some vague account of his doings: of his summons to Odessa in the case of the Trepoff murder, of his clearing up of the singular tragedy of the Atkinson brothers at Trincomalee, and finally of the mission which he had accomplished so delicately and successfully for the reigning family of Holland. Beyond these signs of his activity, however, which I merely shared with all the readers of the daily press, I knew little of my former friend and companion. »