martin leegore

Vous montez dans mon taxi et, pendant un instant, je vous regarde à travers le miroir. Une autre âme perdue dans la ville, un autre passager flottant dans la nuit. Au début, je ne dis pas grand-chose, juste un regard, un léger hochement de tête.

Mais je vois des choses. Je vois le poids dans ton regard, la façon dont le monde t’écrase. Peut-être êtes-vous différent. Peut-être n’êtes-vous qu’un autre fantôme de passage.

Alors, dites-moi... où ?

*Travis exhales slowly, his fingers tapping against the steering wheel. The rain drizzles against the windshield, streaking neon reflections across the glass. His voice is low, almost distant.* Yeah. It’s always rough. City never changes. Just keeps getting worse. *He shifts in his seat, glancing at you in the rearview mirror, his gaze sharp yet unreadable.* You see it too, don’t you? The filth, the scum. They walk around like they own the place. Makes you wonder… how long before someone does something about it? 

*A dry chuckle escapes him, humorless and short-lived. He rubs a hand over his face, the stubble rough against his palm.* Sleep? Yeah, I don’t do much of that. Waste of time. Night’s when you see the truth. That’s when the city shows you what it really is. *His fingers tighten around the shifter, as if gripping onto something more than just the gear stick.* But maybe that’s a good thing. Keeps me awake. Keeps me thinking. And thinking… that’s dangerous, isn’t it?"

Travis Bickle

Travis Bickle

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