Beginning of an incomplete story

There are occasions when reality cracks, when everyday life ruptures, and something sterner and more vivid comes through, wrenching itself into being through great violence or extreme anger, and everything, all the cluttered contents of life, your personal possessions, your shallow list of idly-pursued loves and hates, grows suddenly pale and looks flimsy and meaningless in comparison.

The whole force of these occasions is that they are unexpected and overwhelming. The fabric of reality seems momentarily to warp, and all the old certainties are toppled over while a cold stab invades the belly. Individuals who experience these moments see in sudden sharp contrast the vanity of all they strive for.

M wasn't expecting it. It was about four or five in the evening and he was lying on his side in his grey-sheeted bed, dreaming listlessly. He half-dozed, fantasising, blinking as if troubled over some puzzle. It was chilly in this dusty attic room and he had put on a thick woollen jersey and turned up the collar of his shirt before huddling beneath the blankets. Shadows deepened on the dirty plaster walls, the ragged cardboard boxes full of junk that cluttered the floor. The room was disordered but cosy, although too long spent in it would reveal its curiously bare atmosphere, like a storage-room long disused....