. .. my arm hang, I support my forehead against the glass. This old woman annoys me. She trots stubbornly, with eyes lost. Sometimes it ends with a look frightened, as if danger had grazed invisble. Here it is under my window. Wind plate genoux.Elle her skirts against her stops, she arranges her hands fichu.Ses tremblent.Elle leaves, now I see the dos.Vieille woodlouse! I suspect it will turn right onto Boulevard Black .. it makes it a hundred meters to go: Train it goes well it will be ten minutes, ten minutes during which I would stay like that, looking at her, his forehead pressed against the vitre.Elle twenty times will stop, start stop ...
I see the future. It is there, laid in the street, barely lighter than the present. That he needs to realize? What does it give him more? The old woman hobbled away, she stops, she pulls out a strand of gray that escapes his fichu.Ellemarche she was there, now it's here ... I do not know where I stand: I do see his actions, is what I expect? I can no longer distinguish the present from future and yet it lasts, it occurs gradually, the old lead in the deserted street, she moves her big shoes of a man.
That time, the naked time, it slowly comes into existence, it is delayed and when it comes, we are disgusted because we realize that it was already long gone. The old approach to the corner, this is just a small pile of cloth noires.Eh Well, yes, I admit, it's nine, that she was not there at all 'is something new hour.m tarnished, deflowered, which can never turn will surprendre.Elle the corner, it turns-for ages.
(JP Sartre-Nausea)
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