Claude could see more and more the end coming. He did not speak about it, but Cameron felt it in his writing. He had changed his pace and the time of his narration, as if he lived things in the present.
**I bought an apartment in Louisville. I have never been back since I met with myself. I enter this room for the first time, but everything around me - the color of the walls, the smell of the closets, the floor creaks and the aroma of the paint too fresh in my mouth - all it is strangely familiar to me. How many times have I written these words?
Outside, the sun sets, a thin stream of orange light enters the room to reveal the colors of the prism on the front door. I open my boxes, one by one, each of them brings back the perfume of another world, the essence of thousands of sheets piled up. An invisible aroma invades the room; a haze with a purple aura is embedded in the walls, carpet, curtains, flooring, ceramics and sheets.
On a small table, I put an ashtray, I leave a sports bag on the bed in the center of the room. I grab a briefcase on the floor, I put it on a desk. I open it to take out an Underwood typewriter. She is old and worn, but I can not write without her. Using a towel, I clean the cylinder. I then go to the boxes to get out a pack of sheets. I go back to the office, put one in the roll, put the others next to it. I head for the bed, I open the bag, I remove some underwear. Then I open a pocket, inside is a small blue notebook. Inside, you left this note: Write as you love, with passion and forever, C.C. You gave me this notebook, a long time ago, for my birthday, no doubt. Between the pages, I feel your picture slipping. I crouch on the floor to pick it up. I remember your face blushing all the time, your long curly blond hair, your thin lips and your blue eyes just like the sky before night falls.
I put the notebook on my desk. I look around the room, it is empty. The mist has taken its place, I let my characters take possession of the place. I look at all those white sheets and wonder where to start my journal. Where to start? - that was the question; where to put the very first touch? Virginia Woolf wondered almost a century ago. You have to run the risk, but where? At the terrace of the hotel d'Angleterre? This time, I'm going to settle for the local coffee shop.**
This text was different from others. It was incomplete, the end had been voluntarily withdrawn. The paper was different too, it was not that of the prison, but sheets torn from a notebook.