Suddenly I realize the indisputable grip of nature's humorous hand. One
evidently stands on _Ca Pue_ in such cases. Having finished, panting with
stink, I tumble on the bed and consider my next move.
The straw will do. Ouch, but it's Dirty.--Several hours elapse....
Steps and fumble. Klang. Repetition of promise to Monsieur Savy, etc.
Turnkeyish and turnkeyish. Identical expression. One body collapses
sufficiently to deposit a hunk of bread and a piece of water.
"Give your bowl."
I gave it, smiled and said: "Well, how about that pencil?"
"Pencil?" T-c looked at T-c.
They recited then the following word: "To-morrow." Klang and footsteps.
So I took matches, burnt, and with just 60 of them wrote the first stanza
of a ballade. To-morrow I will write the second. Day after to-morrow the
third. Next day the refrain. After--oh, well.
My whistling of Petroushka brought no response this evening.
So I climbed on _Ca Pue_, whom I now regarded with complete friendliness;
the new moon was unclosing sticky wings in dusk, a far noise from near
things.
I sang a song the "dirty Frenchmen" taught us, _mon ami et moi_. The song
says _Bon soir, Madame de la Lune_.... I did not sing out loud, simply
because the moon was like a mademoiselle, and I did not want to offend
the moon.
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