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“I was also leaving behind things, old things I had believed useful, and that I had never wanted to get rid of, even when I changed rooms: a pair of trousers, a metal can, a perfume bottle that was empty but made of heavy glass,photographs, worn-out shirts, letters and envelopes—I cannot tear up a letter, and I always keep the envelopes as if,without them, the letters would not be letters.I had left everything”

I was leaving behind an ordered life, so well ordered that I was surprised, now, that it no longer existed. The person who would take over my room would not get up at the same time as I had. I would no longer buy my rolls at the neighborhood bakery. No one would see me anymore. In a month, after the customary time of an illness or a vacation, perhaps people would think of me for a moment, and then it would be over.