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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. .

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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, and without going through music theory! 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.” The rain always makes you want to go play some music outside. 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.