The reason I am writing this is that the same woman I saw two weeks ago, on a friday evening, is here. Very few people visit the library on friday evenings. This woman, the central point of all my thoughts and conjectures, is back. Everytime she walks past me to take printouts of what look like dates, I feel a pang of pain in my heart. She is a perfect symbol of helplessness and abandonment. Somehow her actions bear a frightening similarity with my own follies and stupidity. I fail to understand or make a rational theory to explain why she should need those printouts with nothing but dates printed on them. She must have taken it at least twenty times - the same monotonous tables of dates. Perhaps she is planning something or perhaps she is insane. Her dull sunken eyes and unsteady gait are suggestive of a recent illness. Last time when she could not get some of those papers printed, I helped her. She neither smiled nor thanked me. This has to be the strangest thing in New York, considered to be the most polite city in the world. The fragrance of flowers and the songs of birds wiped off my uneasiness. It's back again. Ah there she is with files of paper - papers carrying meaningless tables of dates.It's evening. She is still here taking those vicious printouts. There is anger fuming in me partly fanned by my curiosity and partly by her stupidity.