One day, it was a Friday, I could not. One idea, which he denied in me, opened the doors and ran the boats from side to side, as do the ideas that want to leave. To be Friday, I believe, was chance, but it could also have been purposeful; I was brought up in the terror of that day; I listened to ballads at home, coming from the countryside and from the old metropole, on which Friday was the day of omen. However, since there are no almanaks in the brain, it is probable that the idea did not strike the heart except by the need it felt to come to the air and to life. Life is so beautiful that the very idea of death needs to come first to it before it is fulfilled. You understand me already; read another chapter now.