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ablation
flows over my clothes. I let
it spray me even though the
water is cold. I feel that it
is helping me. I sit in the
shower as the water splashes
onto my head. In the process
of getting up, I bang into the
wall. I hang onto the shower
curtain. At last I get out,
take of f my pajamas, and
dry myself with a towel. I
tell myself: if I can make a
coffee, I am saved. I drink a
coffee, then another. I am
butt naked. The neighbors
can see me. I am laughing at
them. There’s nothing to see.
Instead of returning to the
bedroom, I sit in the living
room. I calm myself. Black-
and-white images parade in
front of me. I am outside of
my body. I no longer exist. I
feel well.
I awake one morning with
a set plan: to no longer live
with the memory of my life.
I look around me. Everything
is where it should be. My
body escapes. A friend from
a conference at the Louvre
sent me an invitation to see
an exhibition at the Musée
d’Orsay called
Degas and
the Nude
. It attracts my
at tention. The date has
passed. The proposition is
tempting. I usually don’t miss
big exhibitions. My season
pass for
La Comédie Française
is also lying around here,
expired. I have not filled out
the form with the date for a
reservation. Just beside that
lay a notice from the post
office—a voluminous packet
or a registered letter. I have
not taken the time to verify.
It waits on the small table by
the front door, surrounded
by other envelopes which
should have been responded
to and posted. During this
time, I forget. I put a lot of