Cigarette smoke slowly rises up and is spread around by the fan as I sit at my desk, filling out damned reports. It’s already quite dark, and from the window, through the pouring rain, I could see the neon signs of hotels, bars and shops. I go to the can, and splash burning cold water on my face. I look at myself in the mirror and black eyes and a pale face look back. I was always tormented by the same question, that I speak in a hoarse, dry voice: "Can this storyline be random?"