excerpt
I enter a cafe. I ask for a sandwich. Then for a carafe of wine. The lady who runs the place looks at me: 'He's a drinker, this little guy.' All right. After confirming my order - I swear I had to - she brings the carafe to my table. I've bought a newspaper. I read. A cat comes over, rubs against my calves, which begin to purr in turn. I let myself go more or less, thinking I won't be able to leave this cafe. I feel numb, the carafe has been swigged down, but I can still write - here's the proof. Write, yes, but get up, pay, leave - it's going to be difficult. I'll probably stagger a little. I live in these boondocks. I'll come back to this cafe, the only tobacconist's around here. I'll probably be entitled to a look as big as a carafe. Perhaps I'll ultimately no longer want to return. I'll go five kilometers to get my tobacco. Being free would thus imply being blind, deaf and dumb. Or rather, acting and living as if this were the case. Admit it, admit it - it's difficult.