He was in misery; he was paying for last night's debauch. “Splendid it must be to be a composer. The sword, Jacques. With what airs we human atoms invest ourselves! What ridiculous fancies of our importance! We believe we have destinies, when we have only destinations: that we are something immortal, when each of us is in truth only the repository of a dream. “Holy shit!” Giggling and snickering was amplified by asbestos tiles and reverberated by metal desks.
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