Cotton clouds appear suddenly in the  ciel , held there with double-sided  casette . Official mourners stand on the  sol  underneath, trying to find faces in the smoky shapes that drift apart. After a while, nothing is left, and attention drifts across the otherwise completely  bleu   ciel  to the intercontinental contrail of a commercial  jet , way to high (and off-course too, what's a passenger  jet  doing over this test-killing  sol ?     Pendant tout ce temps, la télévision des abeilles émettait en moi. Je recevais les images des abeilles.