soupe aux mauvaises herbes

I’m deeply entrenched in transformation. Compost comes from the toilets. I made a compote of some pommes abîmées and a gâteau aux courgettes out of myself. Morgan has dreams about sexual assault, offered me her melatonin, warned of possible malignant effects. I just ate an almond and I couldn’t tell if it tasted more like amaretto or cyanide—do those taste the same or the opposite? What’s that thing Montaigne says about the skeptic and the rhubarb? Jean-Pierre says, in French, that it (rhubarb) will burn a hole in your shoe, I say what?, he says it in English, I don’t know what he’s talking about; oh, rhubarb, ça pique. Also, Italian coffee, you can float a horseshoe in it. I learn argot for water (flotte), tired (noz?), someone who apports the emmerdements (chieur). Morgan asks what’s argot, Jean-Pierre says “slang,” Morgan says “for what?”, he says “slayng,” I say, “argot, c’est l’argot pour ‘argot,’” Morgan laughs a little but everyone's kind of uncomfortable. Here's a picture of me and Marwan next to a bus:

Happy Bastille Day, fidèles!