France is dizzy.
Private joys, forbidden for too long, prevail over public gravities.
The cicada wants to sing, dance all his drunk
"to forget",
as a variety song says.
We briskly step over the last administrative barriers that want to put a whole country to bed at 11 p.m.
We find the face of the other, the pleasure of jubilant stadiums.
We project our mind on the summits and beyond the seas.
We breathe, finally!
Is it recklessness?
For this to happen, our country would need to be cured of the deep ills that strike, damage and threaten its very existence.
Inconsistency?
Men are not machines, they need the dizziness of the party, the riches of friendship, the pleasure of reunion, the magic of travel.
It is therefore a moment, precious and fleeting, that we are living.
It is not nothing, but it is floating and fragile like the atmosphere: the passage of the seasons does not spare the people.
"Privacy, the only
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