I laugh sometimes when I think about br say br Céline at a typewriter br or Dostoevsky... br or Hamsun... br ordinary men with feet, ears, eyes, br ordinary men with hair on their heads br sitting there typing words br while having difficulties with life br while being puzzled almost to madness. br br Dostoevsky gets up br he leaves the machine to piss, br comes back br drinks a glass of milk and thinks about br the casino and br the roulette wheel. br br Céline stops, gets up, walks to the br window, looks out, thinks, my last patient br died today, I won't have to make any more br visits there. br when I saw him last br he paid his doctor bill; br it's those who don't pay their bills, br they live on and on. br Céline walks back, sits down at the br machine br is still for a good two minutes br then begins to type. br br Hamsun stands over his machine thinking, br I wonder if they are going to believe br all these things I write? br he sits down, begins to type. br he doesn't know what a writer's block br is: br he's a prolific son-of-a-bitch br damn near as magnificent as br the sun. br he types away. br br and I laugh br not out loud br but all up and down these walls, these br dirty yellow and blue walls br my white cat asleep on the br table br hiding his eyes from the br light. br br he's not alone tonight br and neither am br I.