"How come he cannot recognize his own cruelty now turned against him? How come he can't see his own savagery as a colonist in the savagery of these o… - Jean-Paul Sartre

And there is something that clutches the heart: the melody is absolutely untouched by this tiny coughing of the needle on the record. It is so far — so far behind. I understand that too: the disc is scratched and is wearing out, perhaps the singer is dead; I’m going to leave, I’m going to take my train. But behind the existence which falls from one present to the other, without a past, without a future, behind these sounds which decompose from day to day, peel off and slip towards death, the melody stays the same, young and firm, like a pitiless witness.

I marvel at these young people: drinking their coffee, they tell clear, plausible stories. If they are asked what they did yesterday, they aren't embarrassed: they bring you up to date in a few words. If I were in their place, I'd fall over myself. It's true that no one has bothered about how I spend my time for a long while. When you live alone you no longer know what it is to tell something: the plausible disappears at the same time as the friends.

A pale reflection of myself wavers in my consciousness...and suddenly the “I” pales, pales, and fades out.