When I arrive at the newsroom, the sun is already high in the sky. I slept badly and woke up with all my bones broken. Before I have time to rest my a*s on the chair Butz sends for me. I already know what he wants to talk about, what he’ll be driving at. It’s about me turning up late. He says I’m not precise enough with the timetables and that I often look scruffy and unkempt in the morning. Personally I am inclined to think that having an appearance that tells of one"s own experience and one"s existential concerns in such an incisive way does not constitute a fault but rather deserves some merit. My face has a homely look. It tells things they way they are. I’ve explained it to Butz in every language, but it’s something he doesn"t want to understand. It’s like he has nothing to do but cr
