I pass a lot of time cursing myself about the pencil, looking at my walls, my unique interior. 

 Suddenly I realize the indisputable grip of nature’s humorous hand. One evidently stands on Ça 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 Ça 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. My friends: the silhouette and la lune, not counting Ça Pue, whom I regarded almost as a part of me. 

 Then I lay down, and heard (but could not see the silhouette eat something or somebody) … and saw, but could not hear, the incense of Ça Pue mount gingerly upon the taking air of twilight. 

 The next day.—Promise to M. Savy. Whang. “My pencil?”—“You don’t need any pencil, you’re going away.”—“When?”—“Directly.”—“How directly?”—“In an hour or two: your friend has already gone before. Get ready.” 

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