8
N. woke early, meeting the dawn on the garden bench. The mast was directing the orange ball towards its destination.
“A hapless man’s morning,” N. said to himself. “The fortunate ones are all asleep at this hour. But how easy it is to plunge into misfortune here in my homeland… ‘The Kingdom of Wintery Blizzards’ tosses people out; rubbish bins are put out for them. And, worst of all, these bins are full of ‘life that goes on everywhere.’
N. took out his notebook. The Flying Dutchman sailed over the lines of both score and notebook. “Work saves,” he said to himself after a short pause. “But who will save the fruit of our labours? Take this, for instance, for whom is it all written? I’ll be put on the black list now and no one will publish my work…”
Chasing these thoughts from his mind
