Liberation

It's my fault, of course, W. says of our lack of self-control. For a time, it's liberating – it liberated W., freeing him from the high table. He felt a great rush of freedom; he sent laughter into the air.

But then what? His former colleagues on the high table turned their backs on him. He was free, but alone. Well, alone except for me, and I hardly count, after a while. I hardly count, I who wear out friendship and all the usual forms of sociability.

So W. set off on his lonely path. We set off, and left everything he knew behind him.