Jean-Paul Sartre. Nausea (№ 315904)

Hot sun in my head of a wooden sailing as the picture in a magic lantern. Followed by a piece of blue sky. Twitching several times, it froze, I'm all plated it from the inside. From what Moroccan (or maybe Algerian? Or Syrian?) day it suddenly came off? I surrender to the flow, blowing me back.