A raw first-person text in which a writer in crisis in Deauville struggles to write: the alarm rang too early, the coffee maker exploded in his hands, Deauville smells of wet horse, and what is the point of living if it is to drink instant coffee and walk on crushed glass. He must write, let the monster out, free the beast, and give birth to the pages he carries inside, knowing he has oversold an empty shell: the interviews for the local press have begun, his colleagues start calling him Bukowski. He would like to run away, disappear somewhere the boards are wider and the crowd denser, dissolve in alcohol and gambling, yet he keeps coming back. Perhaps he will leave when the story with this girl is over; perhaps the story with this girl will end when he leaves.