Blessed by a sudden forgetfulness of daily, endearing conventions, our friend left his home; to not find it again, never. On his way toward the nearly far but not so frightening world, he managed to let loose all logic in association, and to forget logic as well during the process. I should not represent him as a human talking to the inanimate, as a fool not to be trusted, as a wise man, or a desperate or optimistic, for this would imply a reorganizing of the world in the mind of the reader. Let us say for the world being that it was, and had been, and should become something of his own; something which escaped limits in description without limiting itself to mental escapism.

A fair introduction to the thing opposite to the notion of \'scheme\' which didn\'t rule, but obeyed the stream of our friend should be given, in order to prevent future questioning. Let us draw the engulfing darkness surrounding the candles of an old Caf�, the stains of red wine on the table which had been erased the previous morning by a busy employee, and the half of our glasses we had already sipped. We had not been introduced and yet managed to fall over each other, for the graceful reeling of alcohol or lack of anything else to do.

A shapeshifting man he seemed, under the blurring contour of my vision. Or maybe unformed yet, to be decided and argued over for the first and final time. Somehow strangely familiar. Neither friend nor foe, a missing link between the two. Engaging as he was, the noisy humdrum of a well-known place helped me feel instantly confortable: had we met under the inhospitable eeriness of a different place, street, town or land things might have been different. But this place was like home, and home was the place to be.

\'And what brings you here on this happy night?\' I asked.

\'The quest for inspiration.

-Oh, are you a writer ?

-I have written many books, each of them aiming at being exactly the same in order to reject the possibility of a positive or negative critic.\' said he.

\'You\'ve been criticized though ?

- My intents have been, not the books.

-But in the end the book was always the same...

-It was and was not.

-You\'re a coward. A veil of reasoning to hide the lack of inspiration.

-Don\'t be so hard on yourself. You\'re the writer here.\'

Words on which he left, loosing himself in the crowd of regulars.