At night, the lights around the windowpanes give it a mysteriousness that makes it hard to read our names in the dark. This source of illumination is a philosopher’s dream, carried away in the dark of night, and at the same time a philosopher’s nightmare, the object of vain exorcisms. The presence of the night is a reproach to the day, a dragging away of the past.

The unfinished business of yesterday is being carried out today. What is here today is only a repetition of yesterday’s mistakes.