The year of the coronavirus, the year when everything was to change, is inaugurating the time of the Great Restoration. Everything known returns furiously , with an abusive air of revenge. For those who have never believed in revolutions, reality ends by praising prudence. The serene person who closes in on one then faces Ian Malcolm when life makes its way and the tyrannosaurus comes out of its gate: "How I hate being right." Tyrannosaurus aside, that hatred is posture: nothing sweeter than watching the corpse of the prophets of unprecedented change pass by your porch, the Marxist midwives of history who never tire of equi
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