We are writing this book as a rhizome. It is composed of plateaus. We have given it a circular form, but only for laughs. Each morning we would wake up, and each of us would ask himself what plateau he was going to tackle, writing five lines here, ten there. We had hallucinatory experiences, we watched lines leave one plateau and proceed to another like columns of tiny ants.
The whole thing was hilarious, except that the line which finally led to our destination was the longest one in history! In fact, it went on for over two thousand pages. I think we were all laughing at one point, when suddenly we heard an explosion outside. A bomb exploded near the house, and everyone started running away from it. Then we saw a man with a long beard coming towards us. He looked very old, and his face was covered by a white beard. His eyes were black, and they stared into ours. "What do you want?" he asked in a low voice. "We're just writing a book", I replied. He nodded, and told us to follow him. We did so, and we entered his office. He told us to be very quiet, because if his wife, who was an artist, had not overheard him returning, she would have killed him. He then asked us what we were writing about. I told him, and he started smiling. "Oh, it's about the war, isn't it?" he said. "I used to fight in the old wars. What are you writing about the war?" he then asked us two girls, who seemed terrified.
We explained to him that we were writing about the new war, but that we were uncertain as to what to write about the old war. "Well, why not about the love of the old wars?" he asked. "It was the greatest love of all." He told us to wait, and he left the room. After about five minutes, we heard a scream outside. It was the old man's wife. She had killed herself by shooting herself in the head. She was lying in front of the house. "What did you do that for?" we heard the old man saying. He was trying to pick her up. "Why did you kill yourself?" We could only stare at him. Then, we heard another explosion outside. This one was louder than the first. It was the army, trying to find the man. They probably heard the gunshots, and the suicide.
We ran away that very moment, leaving the house and never returning to it. The old man and his wife were not to be found. We never did find out what happened to them. All we know is that we, their children, survived the war.