Roundabout

Where are you going, Monsieur Hulot? You walk through glass doors. Empty your pipe to fill it again. American tourists, a horde, rush past. Where are they going, Monsieur Hulot? Around the corner in pursuit of a sight. The sight, a mirage in floor-to-ceiling windows. Every city of the world’s a destination, every destination, its own skyscraper. Let’s go to Montparnasse then, dance the unending speed machine. Why say in English what you can say in French? Années soixante the 1960s, dancing all-night, falling off barstools. Watching screens for hours. Where’s it all going, Monsieur Hulot? Stuck on the [roundabout].