Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. My son wanted to marry a woman of thirty in a tobacconist’s shop. Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house. “Will they worry about you getting caught in a storm?” She asked him as she viewed black clouds floating in different directions. Why not kill her here, and leave silently, the way he must have come? Could it be that he had not the intention to kill her? En tout cas, it gave her a chance.
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