* * *
A lousy hot summer. The dead season.
My book is at four different publishers at the same time where it's being sluggishly read. Again, I'm waiting. Days go by, and there you have the everyday murder that civilization subjects us to.
Last month, I whitewashed and plastered two apartments; now, once a week, I vacuum and scrub the millionaire's house for which they pay me medium wage. My life hardly moves, the only change in it is getting some free vegetation – sixteen green plants: the rich family has moved to San Francisco. There are two palmtrees among the plants. Watering the plants-my new chore-gives me pleasure, and while watering them, I also converse with them.
The publishers are like dark towers looming in the backdrop of my consciousness, and I peer at these dark towers with hope and hatred. The murderers!