Even if I had an excuse

How it is written I do not know and will never know. But I am beginning to guess one thing: who is writing on the blank sheet in front of me? It is not I who am writing. If I were writing, I would somehow be able to cope with myself, regulate my day and night, tune myself like an old, well-studied instrument. But there is the sorrow that someone else is writing, unknown, elusive, who does not obey either my will or my desires, least of all my plans. Who is he? Where does he come from? And will he ever come again? I wake up in the morning in a bad mood. Not a trace of a poetic atmosphere. The telephone, the intruder, rushes into my mind with a stare like a drill and confuses my whole day. Everything falls apart. I leave with a sour face as if I had a toothache. My world is crooked. And on top of all that - around the corner an unpleasant meeting. I try to avoid looking at the annoying face, I say that I'm in a hurry, that I'm late, that they're waiting for me to put out a fire... The man insists on at least a moment to have his say. I listen to him with a quarter of my attention, I move away a step or two so that it becomes uncomfortable for him to hold me any longer. And he approaches and, at a breathless pace, rushes to explain some trifle to me to the end, as if someone is chasing and whipping his tongue.