We've gone on pilgrimage through the thirst of fictional memorials. Representations of history at the destination of our journey; Paris at the GPS. It seems to us that we are dealing with a monumental work by Christian Boltanski or Anselm Kiefer, since we have felt in the body the emptiness, the grandeur and the head of space. What's in the head? Shots in the head, questions, irresistible metaphors in multiple directions, trying to understand everything: What the hell has been wrecking all this? What are our demons? Our authors? And we, are we to blame? Yes, there has also been a doubt of guilt, of oneself, of the collectivity, surely, by the condition of temple of this gigantic installation.

Stone columns hold a cavernous hollow, adorned with flowers, and more flowers, of glass, of light, that filter the world inwards, into the Gothic darkness. This light caresses the surface of the burnt landscape in the century-old cage.

The ashes of the march, the remnants of wars spread through the ground. And lo and behold, man: Uploaded to a mediocre scaffold that he cannot protect, an anonymous worker with red helmets and white work suit, with his face covered with masks, observed the massacre. The language of your body is understandable to everyone, and humble. It says: “What now?” That is the debate, it should be now, and art, with capital letters, makes the great debates of the time visible, stimulating.

Someone would have guessed that the facility we have in front of us, in Paris, in the city of the barricades, on this occasion, is not a staging of fictional memories. Located on the zero kilometer, this Notre Dame is the symbol that breathes, he was saved from so much fire hiding (showing) his burned remains in the stomach. Do you know that only robots can access some parts of the cathedral?

I don’t want to cry with Macron’s tweets – “Tonight I’m sad to see some of us burn.” It is not the national icon (the one that saw himself crowned with an imperial layer of gold from Napoleon) that interests me. Myths yes, myths are stories to try to understand a world that cannot be understood. Victor Hugo, when he fell in the afternoon, looked like the eye of a central cyclops rosette, and at night, as he leaned over the heart of the city, he saw a sphinx of two heads. And politics. The climax of the story is the time when politics begins to mix (engullir).

Macron has dealt with the matter. The Elysée proposes new laws to rebuild the most beautiful of what it was before, not only to annul the regulations on urbanism and the conservation of monuments, but also on the environment and working conditions. The identity of the Cathedral – the old versus the modern one – has generated a conflict and, as in other fields of play, also in this case the trick is to present a single alternative: either in favor of Macron or on the side of Le Pen. We're getting used to this until we almost believe it. What it says “or chaos or me” should become suspicious, because it is being simplified in its interests, because it silences the other possible speeches, because it does not leave room for debates and processes.

Let us not forget that both the stories and the travels can be of an open end and we decide the direction. The finals were conditioned by the decisions in the books of the series “look for your adventure”: “If you mean who you are, go to page 250. If you mean a fake name, go to page 271. If you want to try to leave unanswered, go to page 301.” The reality, if you're not sick, is not bipolar either.