This is no weather for fat people, says my roommate. It's almost summer, he's not getting any sleep either, I hear him come and go, sometimes there are voices, but usually he's alone. He smokes his Partagas no.4s in the living room, he takes showers, I hear the water running, three, four times each night, in the morning I see the bottles in the kitchen, the ashtrays, he says he needs to sleep, that he can't live like this, that he ought to work less, he says he already feels much better. Mornings are when I struggle to sleep, I've been waking up earlier and earlier, we're out of sync with our insomnias, I leave once the cafes and swimming pools open. Whenever we talk, a few words here and there, we tell each other we're doing well, that things keep getting better and better. He says he's thinking about buying an old Jag, an absolute bargain, he says he'll lend it to me if I want, he's worried, though, because there's no seatbelt in the back, he says that's the biggest risk for drivers, the passenger in the back seat could smash right into the back of your head, he's seen the statistics, there are loads of studies, he talks about them for hours. What did he mean by asking me to live with him, what does it mean to not be able to live alone, what's the meaning of his life, of mine? I don't mention it, neither does he.

When my hair's really short, the first few days after going to the hairdresser, I run my hand from the nape of my neck to my forehead, against the direction the hair is growing in, to feel my skull, my bones, my skeleton. Then it grows back and I stop running my hand across my head as much. I'd like to shave my head. I think about it every day. But maybe then there'll be nothing left to do. Maybe then I'll be out of ideas. Out of desires. That's the reason why I don't do it.

III

1

It's exhausting and refreshing all at once, not having a house, family, love, money. If Paul were still with me, I'd never have known. The cash flow situation has improved, incidentally. I got the money from the book. My life's getting back to normal. I've stopped stealing. Money's still a bit tight for my own apartment. But maybe it's for the best. What would I do with myself stuck between four walls? That's a tattoo prisoners get, a dot surrounded by four other dots, the prisoner in their cell. Apartments are fine as long as they're not mine, as long as I'm just passing through. None of that matters now that I know I can go from place to place, now that I've learned this about myself.