THE PAST IS NOT CLEAR
Act only approximate
An old stationery country: the smell of dried ink and paper from a musty corner. Persistent grated grateful pencil erasures accompanying anxiously furious with semi-soft rubber on rough A4 sheets by means deaf mice.
A light bulb flashing on the shelves now, diaries, now backpacks, now empty rows within us
On the back of the room is presented with a yellow book, entitled "Double Twisted Wire." The writer is a C homodyne wenge approximately two feet high with two drawers, much tried by life, the interviewer is a P iantana table, which gives the idea knowledgeable about many things: facing a dozen plastic chairs occupied by some quarters of beef passionate about reading provided by the local municipal slaughterhouse. The tension is palpable, the subject concerned.
P - The success changed you?
C - Definitely.
P - In what way?
C - Before I was an armchair.
P - You once said that writing is suffering ...
C - Have you ever tried to write without arms?
P - Where do you get inspiration for your novels?
C - From my inner world.
P - What have you inside now?
C - Socks, underwear and condoms.
Someone in the audience bellows.
The bell on the door chime ago: It appears that a customer came at last, but perhaps it was only a gust of wind ...
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