At the end of the  jour , every  nuit  on the  désert   sol , tiny worlds hidden and shiny in each of the grains of muddy dirt that make up the  terre   sol  here all try to send out spaceships or  radio  beams, trying to make contact one with the other. Hopping across the picket fences of their local community, trying to find friends or fiends or food out there, among the muds. Just at this moment, it is  jour , not much is happening in the greater universe of the  désert  (at least in the direction we're looking), and all the little  poussière  universes are asleep (protecting themselves from the  lumière  of our horrendous  soleil , too bright for us, and deadly for them).     Pendant que je marchais, la télé des abeilles me montrait les sites d'explosions passées, ou de celles du futur.