One day—it was a Friday—I could stand it no longer. A certain idea spread its black wings inside me, beating them from one side to another, as ideas do when they are trying to get out. I think it was an accident that it was Friday, but it might have been intentional; I was brought up in terror of that day; I heard songs sung at home, either from the countryside or from old Rio, in which Friday was an unlucky day. However, since there are no almanacs in the brain, it is probable that the idea was only beating its wings out of the need it felt to emerge into the fresh air and into life. Life is so beautiful that even the idea of death needs to come to life, before it can be realized. You are beginning to catch my drift; now read another chapter.