Pas sur la Lune

In those first years the roads were peopled with refugees shrouded up in their clothing. Wearing masks and googles, sitting in their rags by the side of the road like ruined aviators. Their barrows heaped with shoddy. Towing wagons or carts. Their eyes bright in their skull. Creedless shells of men tottering down the causeways like migrants in a feverland. The frailty of everything revealed at last. Old and troubling issues resolved into nothingness and night. The last instance of a think take the classe with it. Turn out the light and is gone. Look around you. Ever is a long time. But the boy knew what he knew. That ever is no time at all.  

– McCARTHY, Cormac (2006). The Road, New York : Vintage, p. 28. 

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