He picks up the pen, walks to the counter, returns it to the WAITRESS. He pays his bill, and exits.
How should you imagine my last minutes? Do you see me as a pathetic figure, exiting the closed café among the other lingerers, taking a few half-hearted steps in pursuit of one or another, then stopping, and only looking longingly after? Or as a Byronic isolate, walking the streets aimlessly, alone, for hours until, exhausted, my feet of themselves turn in the direction of that darkened house? Or say some prodigal son, returning grim-faced and consumed by the lust for vengeance? You may decide according to your own taste -- it really doesn't matter. I am in some way resigned; I will return to the house, not immediately, but to the house nevertheless. How I waste my moments until then, moments stolen in the first place, is academic. A flame still flickers somewhere far below; I want to live, so awfully, so much despite myself ... I can feel something like fingers clutching involuntarily at straws, at a last foothold in the wall ... how much I wish this were delirium, a temporary impairment from which I would wake tomorrow, whole, solid, integrated with ... something ... but if this is really the extent of my consciousness, if this trembling succession of blind guesses is all I can ... then it would only bring release, really, nothing anyone should much care about, least of all I, in fact ... something soothing, in theory ...So good night -- that is all.
3 INT. CAFE -- NIGHT
Overhead shot of man through FAN. He lays down his pen, folds the papers into a pocket-sized PACKET, which he deposits, top protruding, in his breast POCKET.
He picks up the pen, walks to the counter, returns it to the WAITRESS. He pays his bill, and exits.