Jean-Paul Sartre. Nausea (№ 17088)

Today I was looking for reddish boots of a cavalry officer, who came out of the barracks. Observing eyes, I noticed on the edge of a puddle a piece of paper. I thought, now the officer will trample a piece of paper with his boot in the mud - but no, he's overstepped again and a piece of paper and a puddle. I came closer - it was a page of lined paper, apparently torn from a school notebook. Soaked in the rain, she's all creased up, swollen and covered with blisters, like a burned hand. Red bar fields faded pink streaks in places the ink has blurred. The bottom of the page hid the dried crust of mud. I leaned in, already anticipating how to touch this delicate raw dough and my fingers will roll us in his grey lumps... And failed.
Second, I was standing bending down, read the words: "Dictation. White owl," and straightened up empty-handed. I lost freedom, I have no power to do what you want.