M’s fantasy was to stop time. Not with regard to himself. He was happy to age. Aesthetically, he thought there was an improvement. He looked more thoughtful and more distinguished. No, the world would stop. Everything except himself would halt. He, meanwhile, would sort out his health, he would read, he would prepare a whole sheaf of manuscripts. He would inspect, of course, the suspended world and he would move through it unheard, unseen. And then, after perhaps years, it would start up again, the clocks, metronomes, watches, alarms, the whole machinery of time would creak into motion. The world would resume. But now he would be prepared, he would not be lagging behind out of sync. They would think he had been afflicted with some terrible disease - loosened skin, deep dark rings around his eyes.. But nevertheless, despite the usual contusions of time, he would be in sync with the world, prepared to live.