My hands are the most frightening thing - who knew people who worked suffered this? Every edge is sharp, tearing chunks out of the pads of my fingers, gouging my palms. Every surface is hot, burning the flesh, or rough, blistering it. Every joint is stiff and my wrists are strained - I might be unable to perform my nightly remontage - it hurts to write.

"Je cherche pour un autre mode de vie!"

Bed, Soweto Kinch, fag, glass of wine, Henry Miller; naked between the blankets because all clothes are strung steaming along the bannisters, the village clock striking some half-hour, an unknown point between two unknown and faded milestones...