There is always something absent that torments her. Maxine (28)

a writer who lives in Paris, suffers from solitude, she only

breathes when she reads a book. Books are her friends. the same

feeling of not belonging of futility wherever she’s goes she

pretends, she has interest in what matters nothing to her, she

bestir herself mechanically or out of charity without ever being

caught up without ever being somewhere and what attracts her is

elsewhere, she searches for something or someone that doesn’t

exist, she is in love with an illusion, an idea of a man that merely

jumps off the pages of her journal.