AN IDEA
One day – it was a Friday – I could endure it no longer. A certain dark thought opened its wings and buzzed around in my head as ideas do when they want to get out. I had been brought up in terror of that day, and at home I heard them sing ballads from the interior and the former metropolis in which Friday was regarded as a day of ill omen. However, since we have no almanacs in our brain it is probable that the idea took flight only from the desire for air and life. Life is so beautiful that the idea of death itself must arise first before it can be fulfilled. You will soon understand what I mean. Now read the next chapter.