The Script of the Absurd
Jean sat at the same café in the Latin Quarter every day, his eyes hidden behind dark glasses, his mind a ledger of human contradictions. To the world, he was a poet of the post-war void. To himself, he was the only awake man in a city of sleepwalkers. Jean believed that life was not a series of choices, but a poorly written script. He saw the patterns everywhere: the way the waiter always...
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