Back on the Tram late at night. Notice a black old lady using eyeliner in a bizarre way. Couldn't say why. It appeared unnatural. Waiting for the tram to set sail, the old gal walks past and sits in front of a middle aged couple looking at clothes they had bought during the hot almost summer's day. In slow motion, the woman pulls out some red lipstick she had probably just smeared over her lips (as I couldn't remember seeing such bright colours a few minutes before), and begins to disgustingly use the lipstick as an inner makeup probe in both ear holes. Makeup for the soul, yes, why not? This isn't enough to scare the two off. The black lady then slowly reaches for a packet of lucky strike fags and slips a cigarette into her mouth, lights it up and puffs away without pausing until she finishes the first one off in less than thirty seconds. Of course smoking is prohibited in many places in France, though having someone smoke frantically in your face is more of an issue. The two politely get up and move to away to a less smoky carriage. Then out of "American History X" steps in some hot head thug with an attitude, as if following a script, and goes straight to the black woman and tells her to fucking smoke elsewhere, comon, get the hell out of here. Her eyeballs sleeping above her upper eyelids show no life, so the action man snatches the fag from out of her mouth and throws it outside. Three cops show up, one takes interest, questions the hag, gets nothing out of her, buggers off, the tram starts rolling. As if switched on, in synchrony with the electric trolley car, the front toothless heroin jumps to her feet, after coughing and spitting something lovely on the floor, and walks up to our antihero skinhead, spilling aggressive swear words and shouting at the latter with fury, grabbing her vagina under red trousers calling him a fag. Surprisingly, all the tough guy does is wipe the spit off his hands, as if he had forgotten his lines, and gets off at the next stop.

Red earsticks to draw attention to what is said? No smoking here please. Oh really, well take this Ghandi peaceful absence of violence and try to stop me doing what your invisible shackles wish otherwise. Both copper, thug and hag avoid violence successfuly, slipping at times with aggressive verbal behavior or spoonfed cinematographic footage that at the time felt good to regurgitate. No blood splattered over the diamond scratched tram windows* but still a city sickness breathing heavily down our necks.

At certain times of day the vandalism of pathetic lost youths becomes glorious when sunlight catches the windows at a specific angle and reveals golden light runes. The babble of kids with the hand of God is turned into art. God, did I just say that?