There they are.
There they are: the words on the previous pages are from a journal and from a past of which I have no memory.
And yet the events described as having occurred at the magic wall are the answer to a question that I shouldn’t be able to ask. “What was the woman in the clearing on the island talking about? And who is that woman?
For that matter, who am I? And why am I having dreams about a woman who can’t exist but keeps poking into my here and now and my life and my existence?
I dread reading any more of the journal. I dread it at least for now. And that dread is incremented upwards by hunger.
I am completely out of food and drink. I have been subsisting on bouillon cubes that I found in the deepest recesses of the spice drawer. I must get out of here and try to resume some form of normality to my life. I need Le Départ. I need onion soup at Café du Métro. I need bread. I need the ebb and flow of my streets in my neighborhood.
Perhaps with all of those things and a refilled larder I can go forward reading the journal with some degree of reasoned self control.
Perhaps. I am going to leave here now and go to Le Départ.