East from Erzerum, the road is very lonely. Long distances separate the villages. For a reason or another, we will sometimes stop the car and spend the end of the night outside. Warmed up by a big felt jacket, a fur beanie stretched unto our ears, we listen to the water boiling on the primus, sheltered by a wheel.
Our backs against the hills, we look at the stars, the vague movements of the soil which runs away towards Caucasus, the phosphorescent eyes of foxes.
Time passes with boiling hot teas, rare discussions, cigarettes, then dawn raises, extends, and cailles and perdrix mingle with it…and we hurry to drown this sovereign instant as a dead body at the back of our memory, where we will go searching for it, one day. We stretch, take a few steps, weighing less than a kilo, and the word « happiness » seems really little and particular to describe what is happening to us.
Finally, what constitutes existence’s bone structure is neither family nor career, nor what the others will say or think about you, but few instants of this nature, carried up by an even more peaceful levitation than love’s one, and that life distributes with parsimony, to our weak heart’s measure.