Louis turns to his interlocutor who, like him, is waiting for the arrival of the metro. His skin is pale, his hair beautifully curly, his eyes blue, sad, fixed on the depth of the roaring tunnel. Louis wants to smile at him because he thinks he is handsome, but the man obviously does not address him.
Entire days to live. Huge hours to fill. My mind, happy, but tormented, opens its hands wide. I have difficulty describing my feelings, my sensations as if a cyclone would fall on the few certainties that serve as my conscience. I am just finishing a reading on Nietzsche's thinking and getting ready to start an introduction to existentialism. I want to know where the thinking stands on this point.
I have to constantly travel in the symmetry of the octaves during my singing lessons. After having tamed a little bit the low sounds, I the whisperer, my teacher is telling me to attack the A-flat, B-flat, B-flat, etc. He seems to know where he's going and I'm letting myself be led frighteningly.