Bio | Writings | Recordings | French version



Festival. You are seated in the back with the engineer who takes care of the sound system for the concert. On the equalization screen, it shows you this over-acute frequency zone and makes it rise by several decibels. Suddenly the audience starts to twist, you see their heads tilting to one side or the other as if they are losing their balance.

***

There is this sentence that you like to repeat and which always rings a little wrong in your mouth: "I'm going to buy second-hand shoes." "

***

You knock slates. The boss looks at you in astonishment. What are these two persons doing banging the big slates that hang around in this quarry? Your friend tells him it's for an architectural project. He wants to build a wind turbine which, under the effect of the wind, will activate hammers that will strike a piece of sheet metal, wood and slate. He wants a round shock, not quite like that of a bell, nor flattened by internal cracks. The boss understands better and leaves you alone. Here you are, ringing all the slate debris around you. This is a real cast with a tough selection. In the end, the young man only keeps two and asks for the price. In two seconds, the answer goes from a hundred dollars to free.

***

What a strange feeling to walk through a forest that is only beneficial to the eyes. You visually delight in the moss, oaks and pines intertwined, while having as a sound environment the invisible and excessive passage of cars and trucks. It’s half-hearted relaxation. At the slightest blink of the eyes, you go from nature to concrete.

***

A friend told you about it, but now you have confirmation. Some hunting dogs are fitted with walkie-talkies around their necks to follow directions from their master from a distance.

***

Waf Waf in the sky, waf! You are not crazy, you hear a lot of waf waf in the sky. Uneasiness sets in ... You look up and find a Yorkie barking among the clouds. It just got caught by a hawk at that late afternoon barbecue with your friends. His master is in tears and you finish the sausages in silence.

***

Biiiiip biiiiiip biiiiiip biiiiiip the alarm clock rings. You barely wake up. Biiiiip biiiiiip biiiiiip biiiiiip the alarm rings, you have to get up. Biiiiip biiiiiip biiiiiip biiiiiip but God, it's cold on this bench! Biiiiip biiiiiip biiiiiip biiiiiip you get up abruptly with a car alarm as a morning wake-up call.

***

In all your life, the sound of your footsteps is probably what have listened to the most. In the forest, feet in the water, on the asphalt, on a hoof, on dry land, in a sock, on the scree, on one foot, at the ball, counting, and walking (endlessly), this pulsation of the human in motion.

***

He tells you about the wolf calls that some men made to attract them from the mountains of the Vercors nature reserve. They used building blocks to amplify the sound simulacrum, but drive the sheep crazy, which, much lower down, smashed their enclosures in panic.

***

A dog walks beside you. His panting breathing suggests a moving locomotive.

***

Christmas evening. On the way to the toilet, he throws a big stream of vomit on the wall. Not even ashamed (no one saw him), he stumbles back into the dining room and whispers in his companion's ear these exact terms:
"Can you come and see please?
- I hope you haven't done one yet! Stay quiet in front of my family!
- Oh no, don't worry, I just had a little dismissal from Picard ".

***

A mad madwoman in chromed steel descends the zigzags of the Patrimonio mountains in the direction of Bastia. In the car, the volume of the music is at full blast and that engages PNL on another trap music that you do not recognize. The words spleen expel these two lines: "I sleep in piss, but I remain peace." The driver, a strong woman of almost fifty years, connects the slaloms with an impassive gaze, and responds with a well-pronounced Corsican accent: "I have a Spotify account shared with my son, it allows me to listen live to what my boy is listening to. You know my son, he never talks to me, but I know what is his mood according to what he is listening to. He told me. He said to me "Mom, I don't want to talk with you, but the music says for me what I feel. It's my way of expressing myself, it's my way of talking to you about how I'm doing "".

***

Boarding in the Atlantic puts your body in a position to listen to the seabed. Lying down with your head riveted to the sky, your ears are pleasantly imbued with a molasses of oceanic cracklings whose source of these sounds remains in suspense. Pebbles settling? Gluttonous molluscs or the sparkling of the iodine substance? You don't know at all. And you think: "O infinitesimal masseurs, modest hammers of weightlessness! Here is an ecstatic state par excellence! For ever, you will remain the worthy representatives of the sea who flooded my body with a micro-tympanic nap . "

***

You meet on your way this man who admits to you to be the Italian champion of the biggest burper. You tell him that you want to believe it, but that you need to listen to it to be sure. The man then grabbed a bottle of Coca-Colaand drinks it at an incredible speed. He puts the bottle down and goes into the pre-return position. Her body hardens, her face swells, her belly is assaulted by strange contractions, her mouth opens and widens like a cave rising in the middle of a desert. His neck begins to throb and it is an immense, long burp that falls in this kitchen. The whole body is in action to emit this grotesque note whose walls of the lips vibrate like a towel on a clothesline in the middle of a storm. It stops everyone in their tracks. The burp goes out after about fifteen seconds and you are speechless.

***

The rustling stars could form constellations that would hide celestial partitions within them. It would be a set of music to the rhythm of the movement of the moon. Or you can imagine them being satellites, which, in orbit around the earth, emitted particular whistles, serious or acute, during their movement in space. The rustling stars would then be a very brief sound presence, immediately heard and disappeared.

***

"Hunting was for millennia a silent practice. Whether it was Maximilian, the emperor of Austria, who killed hundreds of chamois with a crossbow, or those first men who cut stones and spears to make themselves weapons, then worked the metal, to better appreciate the flavor of the big beasts, hunting with passion the days when no war disturbed their existence. The peoples of antiquity also indulged in this pastime, whether it was the Assyrian kings who organized great lion hunts, the Egyptians who pursued gazelles on the banks of the Nile, the Gauls of the 1st and 2nd century AD who practiced the hare's run. And when later the kings, anxious not to return empty-handed, had preferred to reserve the right to hunt on their land, death was only less noisy! It was not until the 15th century that a change occurred with the arrival of the arquebus which changed arrows by the powder, then the spinning wheel , a kind of cogwheel that sparks the spark from a piece of pyrite, to make the forest vibrate to shine. And then it was around 1650 the flintlock rifle before being replaced by lead, and when the revolution broke out and put an end to this amusement of the nobility, the people demanded the freedom of hunting and on August 4, 1789, all the privileges being abolished, each one started to hunt. One wonders where so many rifles could have come out, transforming the hunt into a myriad of detonations spreading over several hundred meters."Reading this book, lying in your bed on this summer evening, calls out to your way of life. The next morning, you go for a walk and by a strange coincidence, you meet on the edge of a wood many hunters looking for the hare. You continue on your way by entering this area covered with trees. You hear a multitude of gunshots there, which makes you despair. It's a real carnage that takes place in there and you want to stop this by blowing a good blow of the trumpet that you always carry around with you. You rush among the deciduous trees, breathe into the instrument, but nothing can stop these hunters who continue to shoot profusely. What's happening ? Why so much effusion? It is by approaching the din lodged in the depths of the wood that you discover a rifle shooting range. You leave there with a calm heart.

***

Heat wave. The street is suffering. A minimum of shade refreshes you, but it is above all this broken pipe that lets the water shatter several meters below on a hard plastic sheet that makes you feel good. Strange feeling to listen to the driving rain under a blazing sun.

***

Motorcycle + tunnel = drone of the underworld. It's great how your ass and your ears can experience the same vibrational pleasure.

***

The Vidraru dam is a swift reservoir. You see them flying in three directions to feed their little shelters just under the concrete ledges. It is a hustle and bustle of squeals that reverberate over the entire Carpathian massif.

***

Each volatile insect has its own way of making its wings vibrate, their oscillations varying around your ears. They are creators of sinusoids, which mix, and which produce a complex composition which never stops near stagnant waters.

***

He tells you that some Bulgarian monasteries broadcast eagles' cries through loudspeakers to prevent the arrival of crows and other birds.

***

The child is a city-center raptor. He crisscrosses the main square in search of a game. His cries resound in flight, exploring the cobblestones with his thumping steps that even parents can no longer bear.

***

A Vietnamese cleans your car, and you, meanwhile, are in it well. You admire all the foam that covers it. These are blank 360-degree paintings that slowly melt away. After several minutes, a flash of water suddenly separates the artificial snow and lets through fine faults of the outside world. These are real white noise saber blows! Listening to the karcher's powerful dissections, the outside man tears the canvas while leaving the car intact. You are jubilant not to end up in slice, chain lazy dodges while remaining in a position of contemplation.

***

You always feel more innocent when you speak in a foreign language. You use common words, less complex sentences, your diction is jerky and slower. It's quite a pleasant simple-minded conversation that sets in. Intelligence descends in favor of sharing. It sounds like the playground.

***

Suburb of Timisoara, Romania. You breathe gently on a bench, and take in the calm that comes after the storm. The trees are dripping, the night lets you see life through the windows of buildings. What a soothing silence ...

... And from the balcony at the top, a fart.

***

You are sitting on a bench listening to two people also sitting on the same bench. You feel the vibrations of their vocal cords moving over the wood of the backrest until they reach the center of your back.

***

It is called the talking rock, near the buron de Ravaroche, not far from the Puy Chavaroche, and it is because at this position, a howling voice can communicate as far as the mountains of the other slopes.

***

Not possible to translate correctly this text in English / You like watermelon, even if the pronunciation of this word does not seem appropriate to you for this fruit. A "p"? A "t"? A "q"? The attacks are too strong! It has nothing to do with the juiciness of his flesh, the incessant sucking to delight in it, the rapid aspirations to lick the liquid sugar, bright red gold, until offering the belly of inspiring gurgles when we walk. It is a flood that it needs. The watermelon snatches all form of decorum out of a good meal, envelops itself in the sounds of guts and guts that garnish the crappy food with a mouth filled with bile and blood. Also unconscious are those who nickname it "watermelon".

***

Two great spotted woodpeckers peck a Scots pine: a mother and her baby. Peck after peck, they breathe hard while tearing off the bark. The percussions stop when one of them finds garnish. If it's the mother, she offers it to her moaner.

***

Wandering in Vienna playing the trumpet. It is a city in excess: the crest of the buildings is the top of your reach. You push the tonal intervals to master the distance of the skyscrapers from their shoehorn. Suddenly a Scotsman comes out to see you and asks you to play baroque. He says you breathe like an American. He doesn't like it.

***

There is an island in Brittany that is only a large rock where only the gannets land as a couple. During this time of year, no other species are accepted. Neither the puffins, nor the guillemots of Troïl, nor the penguins torda, nor even a single gannet! You imagine yourself being on this rock among them, listening to them live.

***

Clik clok clik clok clik clok clik clok clik clok: it is a child who imitates the flashing light of a car with his tongue.

***

A family of melanistic black squirrels belch repeatedly on a tree bordering this rubbish enamel dump. One eats while looking you straight in the eye and gives a burst of hiccups before leaving. Dazzling landslides devastate his flight without discretion.

***

Your grandmother is going to take a nap in her room. You take the opportunity to read a little bit in the living room. While reading, you hear something very strange. It’s something like the snores of little baby birds playing down the hall, it’s a very high pitched and soft vibrato that appears and then disappears. Its cycle is never perfectly mechanical, it lives like a breath, never expressing itself in the same way. You get up and approach your grandmother's room. You can hear the sound of the breathing aid being on the way, but that's not what makes the sound that intrigues you. You then go into the kitchen and get closer to the source. You even have the impression that your position in the room changes the amplitude of this unfamiliar sound. You strain your ears and discover a nest lying next to the microwave containing two small eggs that are nothing other than your grandma's pair of hearing aid devices. They remained lit in a box with half-opened glasses. What you perceived was only the feedback which is expressed by the increase in the sound environment of the kitchen. When the sound of the respiratory assistance inhales then exhales, and that it diffuses into the kitchen, it passes through the mini speakers of the hearing aid, then reverberate in the shell of the glasses box to return again in the hearing aid mini microphones, until they disappear. Your grandma's breath is a feedback that expresses itself as chicks clamoring for the beak. Here is a nice definition of deafness.

***

From this open window, you hear the voice of a man who gently rebels: "You are not kind to children, you have never been kind to children ..." His anger is repeated a long time without ever raising the tone.

***

Masturbation is a practice that does not make you deaf. On the contrary, it opens the eardrums, it requires attentive listening to the world to check not to be caught in the act. This is a time when the ear resumes its function as the organ of fear, and checks the volume of your movements while performing an accurate scan of the territory. This hyper-hearing becomes even more striking when you do it in the woods. The space is so open, so pleasant, that you always throw your frequency radar several hundred meters and 360 degrees, while your brain grinds the mental images. It’s pure and hard discrete cinema, experimental gonzo where sound and film fuck from a distance. And while you are immersed in your fantasies, you listen in the distance to the branch which cracks which is indeed a branch which cracks. You listen to the dog that barks which is not a hunting dog which approaches, you listen to the wood which squeaks which is indeed a wood which squeaks, you listen to the birds which jump in the dead leaves and which are not humans. This perception makes you feel good, it even frees you. Looking up at the sky in ecstasy, you tell yourself that the world would be much better if everyone took the time to listen like this.

***

The measure of a song is a matter of miles. And what better way to raise your voice than inside a car? Whether it is to strike up a popular blues tune, grow louder, reach the top of the treble, beatbox or spit out lettrist sonic poetry, you always prefer to do it at 120 km / h on the highway. The wind caresses the sheet metal like a slap and the engine hums so loudly on the asphalt that your bellows cannot be heard from outside. It's actually your favorite rehearsal studio that you renamed "the Vocamobile".

***

Your friend tells you that he recorded his rooster's cry with his smartphone. One evening, he had fun sneaking into the henhouse and playing this recording on his phone. The rooster then woke up in surprise and immediately started a most nuptial cocorico! This woke up all the roosters from the other surrounding farms, which in turn proclaimed their celestial cocoricos. The inhabitants of the village were also awakened. They didn't understand it at all. They even thought it was a bad omen. Since when do roosters crowing in the middle of the night?

***

You speak with a man who expresses himself in a very strange way. Indeed, every five seconds, he lets his breath drag at the end of his words, creating delays in his story endlessly. It goes something like: "I've seen a ourrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrs in my life, it really frrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrightening when you're so closely. I was in my car when this happened. I was so clooooooooooooossse to him that I kept my fingerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr Ouahhhh Rannnnn Rannnn Rannnnn OUarrrf ”.

Suddenly you wake up! It’s morning and you’re lying in your tent moist with the dew. You are not alone. There is the camper next door who is snoring heavily.

***

The driver is telling you a crazy story when he hitchhiked you. According to him, Russia tried to dig a huge hole to reach the core of the earth. The project had to stop along the way because all the workers fled when they heard a blood-curdling sound gush from the depths. On your return, you did not find any article on the Internet on this subject.

***

You follow the footsteps of this audio-naturalist who wants to show you this bird called the zizi bunting. You have doubts ... are you talking about the same thing?

***

There are situations that you consider to be slashers, this sub-genre of horror cinema whose scenario is based on the elimination one by one of the main protagonists. For example, when you were only 6 years old, you spent the day in the garden with your two brothers, and the sun coming to the end of its course, your mother reached the terrace to take turns calling you so that she polishes intensively with soap. It was a cleaning that she operated in the bathroom taking a long time (about thirty minutes) and every weekend the announcement of your names was never in the same order. The group, originally composed of you three and giving pride of place to sport and physical activity, transformed into a duo, where more serious verbal exchanges took place, before ending up alone in the garden and creating a profusion of imaginary to occupy this time of introspection. Do you remember that it was the most melancholy and most pleasant moment for you, when you could scratch the holes of the burrows, watch the ant climb over the twigs, imagine multiple adventure stories, explore unknown places in the garden with always this idea in mind to escape your funeral spell by passing to the other side of the portal.

Another example of a slasher you've experienced is when you were a teenager, when you left college and took the streetcar with your friends. Arrived at the last station, you had to walk together to reach your respective houses, and one by one the group broke up. This journey spanned different conversations depending on how many you were, going from the excesses of school life and teachers, video games and the cinema to very intimate conversations around your loves, drugs, alcohol, masturbation. , especially when you were down to two or three. Now you always spot those slasher situations. They exist everywhere. It could be the movie theater at the time of the end credits. It could be the bus, the last night of the harvest, the skatepark, the waiting room at the end of the afternoon, the job interview ... They are everywhere without it frightening anyone. .

***

The Norman cows get up as soon as you pass on this long-distance hiking trail. It reminds you of the times when in class, in middle school, you didn't listen to the teacher or anything else, and preferred to drift into your thoughts which faded when the door knocked to let the principal in. At that point you had to regain control with the present and stand up with all of your comrades. This knock on the door knocked by the principal is the scroutch-scroutch of your footsteps treading the ground. This is the sound that represents the spice of all your youth which was only waiting for this sentence: "It's okay, I opened the enclosure, you don't need to stay in this school anymore! "

***

The sea wind is an instrument that can be manipulated through the mouth. It is enough to have it in full face and to open the jaw in A or in O to realize it. Its passage in the oral cavity produces a note that we can also have fun raising or lowering like a yo-yo that is played with the stretching of the lips.

***

The 7 p.m. curfew imposed by the third wave of the Covid forces you to pitch your tent on Utah Beach, a beach that lives from the aftermath of the 1944 landing and is invigorated by swamps where seals sometimes stay. Behind the dunes, you hear the tractors rushing down the still moist sand to dislodge the oysters that are grown in this month of April too hot to be placed in the spring. Their engines won't stop until the tide replaces this desert of sand. It is when night falls, under the blows of 8:30 p.m., that a very special treat sets in, and which makes you sleep very quickly. This is the slow crescendo of the rising tide. Gently, it rocks each of your bivouacs and moves away at dawn, when the tractors return.

***

Why is the bird astonished with its songs so melodious and yet so far removed from academic music? Whether in the Eurasian Wren, the speckle accentor, or the regular bursts of the Swift Pug, the bird expresses itself with its syrinx by deviating from any rule of music theory. Perhaps this is precisely because we do not have the same listening relationship between a musician who is supposed to make "music" and an animal whose idea of ​​"music" we detect. What luck then have the birds to be able to express themselves as they want ! They have blazed a trail to escape the caging of off-trail music. The skylark is a prime example. You find it during your walks in the agricultural steppes, and admire its fluorescent songs worthy of the TR 303 used in the acid house. She masters the art of glitch, of jerky sample, emits sluggish trills full of rhythmic pirouettes to turn the dancefloor of a free party.

***

You listen to a striped CD from the trumpeter Cappozzo from your hi-fi system. Reading is laborious, it chops the notes, pausing every second. This silence mumbled with high-pitched sounds wakes up your cats who interpret it as the presence of a squealing mouse. They come closer to the CD player, sniffing every plastic nook for the animal playing the trumpet.

***

You played the trumpet way too loud. So loud that you can now hear the ramdam of your pulse seize in your brain. It hits hard! A bass drum that never stops beating time. You resume your playing on the trumpet by following this pulse. Never have you played with a drummer as nag as your blood flow.

***

You are on the forecourt of the station. People come and go with this very special flavor in the mouth called Friday night. To your right, a teenage girl sits on a red rolling suitcase. She's talking to this young boy who must be her age. From afar, you know she is in love. His feet hit the shell of his suitcase making boom-boom boom-boom boom-boom boom-boom.

***

In the middle of a meadow, you are lying. Quiet. Pass a highway of volatile insects. You listen to each passage of a wing beat its Doppler effect.

***

"I played the piano, leaving my window open so that my notes reached the ears of my neighbor opposite whom I was madly in love with. I hoped she wanted me that way. When thirty years later, I told her this story, she replied that she did not care. This is what he tolds you, bluntly.

***

Children play in a playground. You are next to them with your trumpet, fitted with a balloon tube as a mouthpiece. You breathe hard as you stretch out this piece of latex, making sounds like raging motorcycle engines. Something very noisy and intriguing them a lot. You play while walking slowly, chaining heavy steps like a walking elephant. They follow you behind you, you pretend you don't know them behind you and every time you turn around you make a huge trumpet sound with that balloon. The children then pretend to be scared by shouting and running around. It's a magnificent cacophony that you renew for twenty minutes.

***

You are outside in a large courtyard among the soaked buildings. So as not to disturb, you timidly play the trumpet with your mute. A group of children on bicycles, taking advantage of this Sunday afternoon to meet, pass by at this time. Music changes their bike ride, as they decide to circle around you while you continue to play. This action occurs very smoothly, with attention to listening to the trumpet and their bikes kept in a pianissimo roll. Their choreographies seem to be connected to melody, an improvised dance born out of nowhere, sudden and simple, which reminds you that music remains a celebration of movement.

***

You're waking up ! We ring several times at your apartment. You have no idea what time it is and dare not pick up the intercom to answer. At the window, the moon is already quite high. Who can ring at this hour? Suddenly something comes up that is hard to describe and gives you terrible goosebumps. It's a frightened, deranged, clueless cry coming from outside. A male cry whose tone is extremely high. It oscillates, it vibrates, it screams aaaaaahhhhhhAAAAAAAhhHHHHHHHH !!!!!! The letters in this text fail to describe the anguish that wells up in you. You open your window on the fourth floor and look out into the street. You see a man seen from above and flames spouting right at the entrance to your building! You grab your landline and call the police. You warn them that a mad man is screaming death and setting your home on fire! Fifteen minutes later, the police are there and ask you to come down from the building. Arrived in the entrance hall, the flames are extinguished. It was only the beginning of a fire. You go out into the street and find yourself face to face with the degenerate man. He gives you a strange index finger. He twirls his finger around his mouth in a cul de sac, but you don't understand what he wants to say to you. The police officer approaches you and enlightens you on the situation: You go out into the street and find yourself face to face with the degenerate man. He tried to warn you as best he could, but… he's deaf and dumb. He used his near-virgin vocal cords to save your life. Isn't that amazing? " You slap yourself on the cheek to make sure it's not a dream, and go back to sleep. The alert cry of that deaf mute still echoes in your head.

***

There is a lemon tree in his apartment. It doesn't make lemons yet, instead there are many thick and long thorns. You rub them with your fingers like you rub the big needles of a comb. And it is a well-known vibration that appears: that of the lamellophone. Except he has a lot more blades! About thirty! You start to make music with this lemon tree. Or rather, this lemon tree is starting to make music with you. Perhaps its thorns are fingers that get amazing sounds when rubbing against humans.

***

The rain always makes you want to go and play music outside. So you go out and bury yourself in a glade that you nickname “the anthropocene museum.” It is a disgusting forest, where all kinds of plastics, mattresses, clothes, hoods, cans, syringes, scrap hang out. Yet in this wood, this is your place. You find an intimacy that pleases you, it is a hiding place where you can experience all the sounds you want. When the night falls with the rain, you are still there playing music. A second cry comes from your left, closer this time and louder! Someone walks up to you, and you're fucking crazy! You quickly put your instrument away and try to get out of the woods. But in the darkness and the rain, you can no longer find the path that leads to the exit. The mud sticks to your soles, you move forward, sliding with each step. You stop when you see a little red circle in front of you that lights up like the end of a cigarette that burns when you smoke it. In reality, it is a lamppost in the distance which, obstructed by vegetation, appears and disappears according to the movements of the leaves. Someone walks up to you, and you're fucking crazy! You continue your flight blindly, drenched in the fear of meeting the wild man at every turn. It will only take a few seconds to get out of there and realize that playing music at night is choosing to be the beacon that attracts bad mosquitoes.

***

Cut tree trunks stacked on top of each other to form an unfinished pyramid. You stop your walk in the forest to take a closer look. Its edifice is a marmalade of split logs, you only see a clump of wooden hindquarters that itches you to ring. You hit them with your bamboo walking poles, create a simple rhythm that suits you. Every ass sounds different, it's crazy. Everything is out of tune, but that is enough to carry you happily into a solo percussion improvisation. You explore this little-known instrument, as colossal as an organ, cousin of the xylophone, which you nickname the "foreraphone".

***

Thirty-nine degrees in the shade of the plains of southern France, you say hello to the driver of the train, who is passing at high speed and answers you with a blast of the horn. This whinny spreads to the first village 5 km from here where there is a compote factory. Your girlfriend is working there peeling pears on the line and hearing that horn makes her realize that you are thinking of her. It's your way of secretly communicating, a horn = I love you. That day, your stomach hurts. You fart repeatedly because of the excess of wild figs you eat every day. So you decide to shorten these inexpressible gases by shitting in the middle of this desert when suddenly appear from the horizon of the rails two SNCF agents walking in your direction. You quickly go up your pants well and wait for them to come. They tell you to stop signaling to the train conductor that it could cause a serious accident. You listen to them without knowing if they saw you doing a job, answer them that you didn't want to bother and walk away without bothering to see the premise of a fig tree lodged in your bowels. When you go back the next day, you realize that it looks more like pear compote.

***

A friend lends you his car so that you can drop off your mattress at EMMAÜS. He forgot to tell you that his car's odometer is out of order. You find out much later, on a clear winter road where few cars pass. It gives you the feeling of crossing the Moselle pastoral landscapes like a blindfolded tightrope walker. Luckily, you have the defective conductive window which always remains slightly ajar, allowing a constant stream of wind to pass through. It allows you to more accurately determine your average speed. Indeed, when the density of the wind passing through this notch is super-acute, unpleasant and strong that you cannot hear yourself speak, it means that you are traveling at more than 90 km / h. When a vibrato cuts this scent into a dotted line of tense sounds, it means you're driving around 70 km / h. Surprisingly, going at 50 km / hour only emits a discreet slick that is not so unpleasant compared to the drone which emerges from fourth gear. This is how with this method you got out skillfully throughout the hour of travel. On the other hand you have nabbed the dying.