She ought to shave her armpits but she is brooding over a dead poet, whose demise she is afraid she has brought about herself by her engrossed reading the other night, when the beauty of the poet's mind made her sleepless.
Not the following day but the day after – which was yesterday – his picture was in the upper left corner of the front page of the newspaper. He was dead. Killed in a windsurfing accident. Nobody to blame but the wind. And perhaps her? Two days ago she had never heard of him, yesterday and day before yesterday she amassed all his books, frantically rushing from one second-hand bookshop to the other, and today she was in love - and mourning. Why should he die as soon as she discovered him? Was it her fault?
She had already dreamt of autographs in one or all of the slim volumes; of correspondence, yes, even marriage. She is a fast day-dreamer. Fastidiously she cuts out the portrait in the paper, pastes it on a large piece of cardboard and sits down to write a commiserating letter to his parents. She will be less excessive next time she finds a new author.
(Utmaning: skriv om att grubbla)