[White1]

And now, as the night lazily stretched its back over me, I was continuing, by force of habit, with the silent letter in which i defended myself and tried to prove that I did'n want to hurt her. Before throwing it into the big box full of unsent letters and wishes, full of promises, requests and half-wispered hopes I tried once more to visualise what she was doing just then, at least to visualise her room. Who knows if she was even there.I no longer knew how she spend her nights. Maybe she was just returning home, her swift footsteps were closing the circle. If i got up now and ran after her, maybe i could cut the circle open, clutch her to myself, within the confines of that circle forget everything outside it, everything that was, that is, that would inevitably be. But i knew I wouldn't do it. I'd only get up in the morning to set off for the streets I'd decided to sweep clean. It suddenly occured to me that this was the reason why I'd found myself in the street with a handcart yesterday morning. I needed to go somewhere in the morning, at least I'd now have a natural objective for a while: set out somewhere, perform whatever kind of activity and listen to whatever kind of talk, just so I don't have to sit amidst the silence listening to the snapping of the threads.
Perhaps, it occured to me, I was in some new space. I'd entered the place where oblivion was born. Or despair.

Ivan Klima, Love and Garbage