A sweet little reusable camera from some forgettable brand had developed a habit—just as Europe’s dreadful winter crept in, the kind that kills everything, empties the streets, and stuns even the most spirited souls—of fleeing some 700 euros away, to the carefree Tropics. Ah, but not just any tropics: these were the tropics of the scorpion, sweet and shameful.
Une gentille petite caméra réutilisable d’une marque quelconque a pris l’habitude, à l’approche du terrible hiver d’Europe – quand le grand froid tue tout, vide les rues et assomme même les âmes les plus enthousiastes – de partir à 700 € de là, sous les Tropiques insouciants. Oooh, mais pas n’importe quel tropique : nous parlons ici du tropique du scorpion, sucré et honteux !
Over time, it grew into a supreme obsession — a door that should never have been opened, for once ajar, it can never truly be shut again. From that doorway wafts every kind of nectar: that of lust, of intoxication, of solitude, of exile — and, of course, the bitter one of death, which always hovers so delicately nearby… Such is the heady scent of damnation.
Au fil du temps, tout ça est devenu une suprême obsession. Une porte qu’il aurait fallu ne pas ouvrir, car il est ensuite bien impossible de la refermer. De cette porte émane toutes sortes de nectars : ceux de la concupiscence, de l’ivresse, de la solitude, de l’exil, et bien sûr celui, âpre, de la mort, qui rôde toujours délicatement… Voici le parfum exaltant de la perdition !
This sensitive little camera often asks itself ‘what the hell am I doing here’ in these scandalous, hot, and humid places.
And if it’s not a victim of unconscious and overwhelming forces beyond its control, then maybe its so-called freedom is just an illusion.
