They have nothing left to curse themselves, they are perforating in silence. Hatred has become their science, cries have become their laughter. Love is dead, love is empty, it has joined the coellants. The big house is empty, the doors are slamming all the time. They have forgotten that not long ago, Strasbourg crossed in laughter. It had seemed to them much smaller than a large suburb square. They have forgotten the smiles they put all around them. When I spoke to you about lovers, that's what I liked to describe. Around midday, the evenings open up. A few bells are ringing. It's always the same barbershop, but the beards are enraged. They dream of a former mistress, they invent their next lover. They no longer see in their children the flaws that the other leaves behind. They have forgotten the good old days, when the little one smiled. When he recited to her, Hamlet, naked like a worm and in German. They have forgotten that they lived together, they burned a thousand lives. When I said beautiful madness, that's what I meant. The piano is no longer than a piece of furniture. The kitchen is flat, a few sandwiches. And they look like two dervishes who have everything in their hands. She forgot that she was singing. He forgot that she was singing. They murder their nocturnalness by reading closed books. They have forgotten that they used to sail from party to party. They have forgotten that they used to sail from party to party. They have forgotten the virtues of famine and abyss. When they slept in two suitcases. But we, my beautiful, how are you doing? But we, my beautiful, how are you doing?