The fodder of my imagination, the protagonist of the useless little reveries by day when things get boring. He has no special qualities in particular but the honour of starring in these plots without having to put in any effort. The protagonist occupies a unique post. The post is always occupied, no matter where. The occupant is not constant, of course, but there has to be such an object, at least one of them. Some little thing to exercise one's imagination upon, the poor subject of many ridiculous pictured conversations, he gets fitted into all sorts of dramas whose existence he has no means of knowing of. Blessed soul, let him live his life and smoke his cigarettes in peace and may this knowledge never reach him.
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