Antoine Volodine
Terminus radioso

It must have been at least two hundred and seventy-eight years since I read my last book, or maybe five minutes ago.

In this sort of infinite, contaminated, and mutant desert where I ended up, some rules that I naively took for granted are missing.

Life is a punishment, the faults within you, fatal, immovable, inherent. Any order is doomed to fail. All that remains is to laugh about it.

Memories crumble like clothes left in the sun for centuries. Of that dust, only the dust remains.

I tried to record the memories, I didn't want to let them go, sooner or later I would do something with them. But I produced only more toxic waste. I became lighter when you threw everything away. You or I, it doesn’t matter. And when you finally decided to throw yourself away too, I turned into millions of crows. Now we know how to fly. That's fine. I guess, it seems. You or I, it doesn’t matter.

I am inside a dream that I am dreaming, I decide the rules of this world, and of the other. Or maybe the dream is yours?

You have only done harm, our simple desire is evil and your existence is only desiring, our desiring is only existing.

You are left with the freedom to forget. The freedom to wait for the end. You or us, it doesn’t matter.