Line 5, 11:15 p.m., between Bastille and Gare du Nord ... I do not know. She gets into the train: very young, barely twenty years old, blonde, thin, translucent complexion, a hot pink scarf tied around her frail shoulders. Articulates his mouth words that I do not understand, Miss K howling in my ears "We is all alone at night ... And it is expected that on the night itself ... / ... ... Doubt exists. "But I do not need to understand what this girl said, it reads on its face, and in the background from his eyes. I suddenly nauseated, she is too young for that ... What a shit! It lies along the corridor and stretches his hand toward each ... Tonight everybody nausea in the train. The pieces piled in his hand. It looks like the Little Match Girl. Is it trying to grill his last match? His last chance? From her, I have this image blurred because fly "in extremis" at the moment where it faces me and I am introducing my room too inconsistent. But I still have a bitter taste above the bottom of the belly near the nausea and another image that much stronger and do not leave me clinging to the bottom of me. It's like a bite. The pain is intense and tenacious. At tomorrow's crisis ... Rattlesnake wintering
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