![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaBuRxAqpoHtY7ken6bn02PMGuLCCqEzYC6Fea1t3gKv7QVdLzg1JmRht3jquhasm2SiV6q5mPrCvbnYd2dyFi-vOpyU13-N3944oKxc1Ov83FIJWCLN2v7KdF5CuIPc48m-CbMQb1_1UdTTYprbQZR9c4CBA9MN1vnKqWt80X_sb5OAaHc-7XbfQd2JY/s16000/Loulou.jpg)
Maurice Pialat. “Loulou”. 1980
“… But it's my absolute right
To kill myself if I like
And now it looks like I might have finally succeeded
And I don't care…”
La negritud de la noche, de un cansancio de rutinas y ruinas grotescas y ruidos ensordecedores, de una muchedumbre asolada en su aislamiento colectivo.
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