There was not a single night when it did not find, sooner or later, a sweet crumb, and a small plump seed of some sort between the floorboards. Thus, it got used to hope. It revised altogether its idea of what the world was like, and of what was going to happen next, or, even, eventually. It thought: how sufficient are these empty rooms! It thought: here I am still, in my black suit, warm and content—and drew a little music from its dark thighs. As though the twilight underneath the refrigerator were the world. As though the winter would never come.
