A candle consumes our inner waxes. As if adolescence hadn't been enough for our torn bodies. Debris,
crashes, heart wounds, beds of humus, hypodermis open to the banalized violence of the streets
where the daily morbidity of lies and spectacle catalyze pain, we had to think our games, heal our
broken dreams, to rebuild them, differently.
Band-aids are never enough. Constantly starting over, changing voices, routes, breaking windows,
ice, walling in the silence, drilling new holes, slipping through the breaches, lighting the fuse,
stretching the cards, renaming the paths, changing the network, phoning with flowers.
To telephone flowers, to moulds, to form spittles of tenderness on the dry skin of the municipalities,
to burn down the town hall, to save the mayor, to return him to his mother and to know that both
are crying.
Acetone on the tiles, mold under the fngernails, growing rapidly, fungus-like, throwing in the towel,
picking it up, squeezing it, sponging again, the sweat from our brows.
Ygrèves is a virus, a spit in the mucous membranes of the city.
That night, the moon lay on her stomach and the night was able to sleep with her. In a dream that
beat like a blinking heart, a frenzied joy seized the legs that danced among the trials, the electric
stars. We had to laugh at catastrophes so as not to smile at the devil within us. In the pissotières,
the subways drown, the memories fade and remain.
Ygrèves is a virus, a spit in the mucous membranes of the city.
In the shadow of the armies of the silent noise, of the makers of the winds, of those who want to
breathe in our place, it was necessary and it always is necessary, we do not know what, to swim
against the contrary winds, to rob the thieves, to enrich the ruins , ruin the owners. We will have
to do what we have been undone, shear the air, shape the iron and grind the time.
Ygrèves is a virus, a spit in the mucous membranes of the city.
And when the time comes, we will have to say I love you to the hands that allow us to dig even
further, at the bottom of the tunnels, the meaning of the word freedom, from which the light
springs.
Matthias Odin for Ygrèves
