“The plan matured for three days and three nights. During the day he carried it in his mind like a ripening pear, and at night he let it hang in the still air, silvered with stars, to freshen and fill with juices under the rural moon. In the pre-dawn silence he walked and walked around the fruit of his imagination. On the fourth morning, he reached for it with an invisible hand, tore it off and devoured it without a trace. He quickly got up and burned all his old letters, put some clothes in a suitcase and dressed in an evening suit and a raven tie, as if in mourning. With his back, he sensed the presence of his wife in the doorway, watching his play through the eyes of a critic who could jump onto the stage at any moment and stop the performance. Walking past her, he muttered: “Sorry...”