Tisti torek je imel občutek, da je njegova psiha frigidna, impotentna. Tak občutek je imel pogosto. Kar obstal bi. Gledal predse ali v strop, medtem ko ga nekaj jebe. Opazoval je televizijo, grizljal kikiriki, nekaj pa ga je jebalo. Da bi mu vsaj prišlo.
Potem je malce preučeval steno. Nič. To nekaj ga je še vedno jebalo. Brez rezultatov.
Nežni avtizem je poimenoval to svoje stanje in še naprej jedel kikiriki. Ko so se mu usta že začela lepiti od soli, je vstal, se oblekel in se spustil po Donjem Konalu do trgovine, po sladoled. Malce je poklepetal z vedno prijaznim Josom, lastnikom trgovine, potem pa se je odpravil nazaj.
(...)

That Tuesday he had the feeling that his mind was frozen, impotent. He often had that feeling. He would just stand like that. He stared into space or at the ceiling while something screwed him. He watched TV, nibbling peanuts and something screwed him. And he could not come.
Then he studied the wall a bit. Nothing. That something still screwed him. Without result.
Gentle autism, he called this state of himself, and kept nibbling peanuts. When his lips start to pucker from the salt, he gets up, dresses and heads to the shop via Donji Konal to buy some ice-cream. He spends some time chatting with the always kind Joso, the shop-keeper, and then heads back.
(...)