This summer we have had a hunter shooting an onanist on a French beach, investigations into the smell of mosquitoes to find who to bite, the mysterious pricks of women and the usual collection of news that attract us between the pool and the hammock, very far from the torpor of the politics of trifles that we usually contemplate. The flat encephalogram of summer goes well with the furtive, the slight, the accidental, the curious, the inexplicable or the sparkling on our screens, although it leaves victims, if possible curable. We want to rest.
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