Last Days of an Ordinary Man
Paris, that rough-skinned old bitch, had, as usual, spread her gray shroud over Louis. And Louis, like a fish out of water, was struggling in this sea of sadness. He was toasting, raising his elbow in an old rade that reeked of lukewarm beer and the sweat of despair, his estaminet of woe. The others, thick brutes, would spit their saucy laughter into the rancid air, laughing at him and his latest bullshit on the job. A grain of sand in the gears, a misplaced comma in the tragi-comedy of life, but for them, it was like a pearl of humor that they chipped away at to the bone.
