There are immutable facts in our life. One in particular. I won’t burden you with it. You might not sleep all that well tonight.
Other than that:
My desk (only 64 cm deep, made to measure) runs across a window. My screen on the far right hand. Thus every time I look up and then down – I am two floors high – I observe humankind in the tradition of any good Parisian going to a cafe and penning his next short story. Except I don’t have a writer’s ambition. Want to send me to the land of nausea? Take me to the next bookshop. Thus all of you aspiring authors out there, optimists you are, do not take any note of me. Have come to conclusion that if I never bought another book in my life what’s already on the shelves will entertain me amply. And no, I will not tell you what does entertain me, because a) it’s private and b) one should rarely reveal one’s sources. Otherwise you’d not make a good spy. Or mistress. Confidante. Friend. Mother. Or anything.
From my vantage point this morning I was able to predict spectre of next divorce. Street cafe, small child, two adults having nothing to say to each other. Nada. Silence. For thirty minutes. If it were a crime I’d reported them. And I don’t normally snitch.