Rue des Murs, Metz, 23 mai.
The first decent picture I took was grabbed there, on September 8th, 2002, with a borrowed Sony cam. I like to take the same shot again from time to time, as to feel how things are working out, what has changed, what we mourn and, most essential, on what we can rely. Did it there and there once. And of course there is this one that I keep taking, too.
The Sainte-Croix hill is my favourite part of town because of its medieval atmosphere; it is silent at night, often empty and always glowing in gold light. It is the heart of the city, the cradle in which it was born and his highest point. It is where you always end up when roaming around, climbing up the hill through Hell street. Used to live there, a long time ago. Years later, I still miss having the cathedral on my doorstep every morning.
Voilà voilà.
[Mais si enfin, c’est cool l’anglais, ça fait introspectif, poète déchiré, ouvert à l’international et déraciné, écrit en fumant du whisky seul et tout drogué dans la nuit sur une vieille machine à écrire rouillée. Super rock n’roll, quoi, tout le monde sait ça.]
The Welcome Wagon – But for You Who Fear My Name
