Fog, or a billion suspended tears,
hung through our path,
dissociating appearance and the real.
Friends and enemies from thin air,
reach out your hand, nothing there.
We were on our way somewhere
and the light turned from our tired eyes.
We talked philosophy and early Miles Davis.
We thought: We were happier on Ninth Line,
why did You bring us out here to die.
We thought that as in video games
nothing takes shape till it gets near.
Nuit sur les Champs-Élysées,
pushing through the overloaded air.