Laura Lafon Cadilhac, Red is over my lover, 2025

There will be no meteorite, no celestial explosion, no end of the world worthy of our fantasies. No dazzling explosion that swallows everything at once, no clean and decisive apocalypse. Just a crumbling, a slow erosion, a patient extinction that stretches out like an overly long season. I dreamed of tsunamis, of colossal waves rising up and swallowing everything. Dreams that burn and transform. But reality has none of this momentum; it crumbles without fanfare. The end is already here. It doesn’t scream, it gnaws away. And yet, tonight, by the river, under the warm light of a summer that lasts too long, we are still here.