To tell stories, still more stories. A collection of indebtedness, of disgrace. To watch the fire as it consumes your body. And slowly in the blaze, writing is itself devoured. I watch the flames – that day shall always be with me, in vain has everything shifted –in the midst of the blaze, glasses clink, someone sits down at a table, leaving no place-setting unused. Knives, forks, spoons rise up, wobbling from the oilcloth cover slashed with ivy-green stripes – shop receipts, labels, official notifications and letters were always slipped beneath it – and the fire incinerates the table, inscribing the stories into oblivion, from which nothing legible remains.