Paris
It was pouring with rain. I bought books and newspapers and hid in the furthest corner of the Café Flore. I read, ate and drank.
* * *
The departed Serge Gainsbourg could be heard once again in Le Monde:
Pourquoi vivre s'il faut mourir? Etre ou ne pas être, question, réponse, composer jusqu'à la décomposition. Mon deal avec la mort ne regarde personne. Que je reboive ou que je refume c'est mon problème. La fumée pour moi, c'est oxygène.
* * *
On page 442 of Dobryj angel smerti Andrei Kurkov gave me a hint in my search for a destination:
If you seek the spiritual you will find the material. If you seek the material you will find either death or nothingness.
Both had sought something, apparently they had not found it. Had I found what I had been looking for? No, I had found something totally different. I had found Gulja and was glad of it. I was even happy.
* * *
Had I found what I had been looking for? What did I seek in life? Was I looking for anything at all? Or was I wandering, living, aimlessly? Without any goal? Should I not have set myself a goal for forty - the last opportunity to achieve one? Should I go on with my journey, although it only made me more pensive and insecure?
