Eyes tickling, stuck on the window of the bus, he wondered if someone was thinking of him at the very same time he was fascinated by the falling snow, sublimed under the orange light of lampposts. Then in the streets, too clumsy to contemplate the hidden architectural treasures sitting on rooftops, he'd watch his feet passing one ahead of the other all the way to his place where he'd sit for hours on his sad armchair trying not to think how sad it is to fancy intentions on people's many faces. He'd go blind in the dark, realizing the sun was already down and brightened up the room for a second when he lit his cigarette. This day was nothing but a whirling chain of cryptic sensations he could not attribute words to. One more day of nothing in his life of nothingness... "How nothing!" he says to him. "Now let's try get some shit done and read his journals... she might have an idea of how this day should end for the many characters he invented..." ; although he was not sure how to put words he read and words of imagination altogether ; maybe there is no way to write anything based on facts... on history... what if He was right ? His right hand would be tempted to say that eternity and frozen time is bullshit while his left hand argued with it and claimed to remain silent and focus on his reading... "The problem is there's no such thing as reading without associating yourself with them characters and them stories and..."