From the diary of Anais Nin:
"Dreams, dreams. I arrive in a delapidated old taxi because I knew nobody else would take such a taxi. The floor of the taxi was so worn the street showed through the cracks. I could have counted the cobblestones. I wondered whether in the end I would fall through and be left sitting in the middle of the street like a new-born baby fallen out of a crib, or an egg from a hen. And there would be the street, suddenly, without time to have prepared myself for adventure. . . I would like life to be always as casual as that. There would never be any engagements. I dropped in here like a package left at the consigne. Will you give me a receipt please, give me a receipt. I have no confidence, you see, I like to hear from people what they think of me, how I look to them, even what I have said to them. You would have to write on the receipt at this hour there came a woman who looked exotic and talked with a foreign accent. I don't mean that she was born elsewhere, in another country, but that she has the intonation of never having been born at all to our language, to the language of other women. . .Now this receipt will prove to me that at five o'clock I was in your house and we did exchange words which you pretended not to have heard before, this receipt will be a great comfort to me. I would fold it and wear it against my breast. It is like a certainty. I would like also when you love me you should note it all down. I feel that from the very beginning life played a terrible conjurer's trick on me. I lost faith in it. It seems to me that every moment now it is playing tricks on me. So that when I hear love I am not sure it is love. . .Don't forget to write me a letter and tell me I was here, and saw you, and loved you. . .I would prefer to move away where I could not sense the movements of life passing, somewhere in space and distance where I might divine that ultimately it is I who will abandon life and separate myself from it, not life leaving me, and it will be like the old taxi that was falling apart and dropped its contents like an egg, and maybe this egg is a book, and not me, and I am safe behind paper and ink and words and stories and only counting cobblestones, not having arrived anywhere yet. . ."