I heard a crack on the ceiling. Mrs. Recker, probably. I could kill her too if I wanted. The thought of going upstairs and doing her in, surprised me. It was absurd. They were treating me like a patient, or a refugee, someone with problems that called for solicitude, if properly rewarded, that is. Without a second thought, Mr. Recker had left his wife with a stranger who had killed his. It had nothing to do with confidence, or goodwill. He just knew the sort of person I was.

Killing Mrs. Recker was a silly idea that would prove nothing except that he was wrong after all. I tried to imagine myself in a cell. The prospect of sharing a room with people was not that dull. It could be redemptive. But then, I could always do that: hop to a police station, give myself in and rock the jailhouse rock. Instead, I decided to give the Reckers a chance.

When I undressed for sleep, a sheet of paper fell out of my trousers. It was your pre-Barcelona letter, a message from beyond.

"Brother in Love,

Yesterday I decided to write you a letter. Too many of my thoughts get lost in the vacuum of day to day life. I feel a need to trap some, and, while I can, instantiate them in ink.

In our face to face conversations, interferences distract me from the essential. Later, when I’m alone again, I feel horribly guilty. The essential is like a snake, when you think you have a grip on it, you see that all you got is dead skin. And then it comes back, unexpectedly, for instance when I ride the bus, or wait for you in the coffee shop...

In front of you, I tend to forget the meaning of words. I’m busy with the listening and the representing, translating your language into mine. My mind gives me a hard time with memories, visions, fragments of dreams, things I have to do... Enemies of the essential. But what else matters?

Man wants man. Man needs man. Man searches for man in between the legs. That quest, that hunt, is what keeps us alive. A man alone is nothing, meaningless as a star that could not reflect light. Before I met you, I felt useless, superfluous, and I was always gloomy. At the age of nineteen, I did something silly. I climbed to the roof of one of my parent’s flats in Brussels. For two hours, I was sitting on the edge of that roof, preparing to throw my body into the void. But someone noticed me and called the firemen. My parents paid the bill.