Marie Borel, p.11

I lost my salt along a side-canal of the Loire. What? We have almost no money left, I’m suddenly angry. I’m not going to the police. I maintain sympathetic relations only with photos to be taken and with sparkling mineral waters. The glass partitions at the bank make sure operations remain transparent. What diamond will make the vessel overflow? The zeal put into constructing a forgery is always proportional to the given value of the real thing. I’m eventually always separate. Woman with her nook and her ermine, hostess at the upper edge 1955. The Belle of Cadiz has velvet eyes. To remain calm in the face of stupidity. Frivolous, delicious, slippery. Following alphabetical order, he runs through the language without ever landing on a sentence. That’s the sense of the affair of the teaspoons at Huck Finn’s aunt’s. The sudden emergence of impromptu from a methodical discursive list. I put so much rum in my tea that I laughed myself to sleep. Daybreak. Daybreak. Daybreak.