There was something like a tree trunk on the ground in the market, and in that tree trunk lived a family (a human family, or a family of fauns—at one point they turn into my friends the X family). Anyway, the family was attached to the tree with some round black rubber straps, which crisscrossed the trunk in whimsical patterns. I drew closer and saw that in among the straps was an extremely dangerous snake, which looked a lot like a strap itself. I tried to separate the (useful) straps from the (dangerous) snake, removing pieces of bark from the tree in the process, but I couldn’t finish the job because of the threat from the snake. I was busy with the bark (which at times was a bedsheet and at times something abstract and immaterial) when the snake woke up, and the two of us had a conversation. This conversation included a challenge, and the snake turned into a wolf. I found myself committed to a duel to the death with him, with knives as the weapon, in an adjoining room.

The wolf is wearing clothes. I look at his chest, which is the part I need to aim for, and it’s covered by a shirt identical to mine. He lets me go first and bares his breast to my blade. I have various wooden cases piled up on top of one another, all containing various kinds of knives. I choose one and stab the wolf in the heart.

(fourth sheet)

(Reliving it now in my imagination, I see that I aim for the right side of the wolf; it would be my left in the mirror, and this detail seems very significant.)

But I’ve chosen the wrong knife; its blade folds like paper and the wolf bursts out laughing. I pick another and the same thing happens. I think about a particularly powerful knife I know is in a compartment of one of the cases, but something keeps me from using it. I don’t really want to kill anyone; I don’t want to feel the metal slicing through flesh, and I don’t want to see any blood. The wolf’s chest radiates strength and virility. I feel very small and weak, and I’m jealous of that strength and virility I’ll never have. In the end, I surrender. I ask the wolf if I can write a letter, saying he can kill me after that. (I have no idea what letter I wanted to write.) The wolf seems satisfied and agrees, but then he’s replaced by a woman with round glasses and a sky-blue dress, a woman with some authority there, who tells me the whole thing’s absurd and I shouldn’t let anyone kill me. The wolf is nowhere to be seen, and I imagine I’m out of danger. I feel relieved but at the same time ashamed of my cowardice, of preferring to be killed than to kill.

December 13