Twenty-thirty hours, in the lost steps room of Berri-Uqam station. I'm with a friend, waiting for another one of his friends. We're sitting. Coffee is obviously terrible. My friend eats a dry potato flour doughnut. In front of me, the flashy ticket office of the STM and, sitting on the benches, not impatient customers, but haggard beings.
It has been established that it is generally the strongest that survives. Let's be clear, physical strength has nothing to do with it. Depending on the context, the cunning, ingenuity, imagination of the survivors, or only their number, work in both directions. Dominant males are fooled by backyard rats more often than you think.
Monday. I was planning to write about David Lindsay's A Voyage to Arcturus, and then I went for a walk. The weather is mild and always as grey as a European winter sky. Rain on Monday certainly helps to start work, except that I hung on to my desk all weekend to page a report from a large company. So I hardly had any breaks even though I reserved the evenings for myself. Anyway, like on weekdays. I'm having trouble getting to work this morning.