By chance on a regional express train shuttle between Nancy and Thionville, the esgourdes on alert, we first catch these comically egocentric words that are But-me-I-will-tell-you and which are detached from a very hot context. It’s a hyperconnected twenty-something traveler who says them. She looks wonderfully angry. His two very contemporary companions with uncovered ears roll their eyes to tell him, we understand without difficulty, to lower his voice. We can guess that the three are talking about politics and getting even more angry with these elected officials of the nation who love to unfold their crippled narrative of me-I'm-gonna-tell-you on the airwaves of radio morning shows.
Very quickly, we are convinced that the three are talking about the deputy leader of an opposition political party which must be that of Jean-Luc Mélenchon and Mathilde Panot who, it appears to us, is no longer involved at all bedbugs from last summer. We say to ourselves that the leaders of all political parties do the same and that those in the extreme center are perhaps even the champions of the exercise. The official rail voice announces the next stop at Woippy station and we lose track of the citizen arguments exchanged between our three micro-tourists who are always angry. It is the same with the less tense thread of our chaotic reading of an article from the national evening daily which talks about the odorless standard consumer tomato that would come to us – heavens! – from Western Sahara and who would have Moroccan citizenship according to the author of the article who is well versed in macro-economics.
The analysis can be read on non-virtual newspaper, as this is not self-evident when we observe the suspicious look given to us by a counterpart with a millennial head who is struggling with two cell phones and a very mobile computer. . Apart from our trio who argue about, we detect, the liquid concept of “feeling” as misleading as the stickier concept of “narrative” whose versatile opinion endows male or female politicians who are not philosophically finished, all the wagon triple-clicks like crazy people.
