We were in a bar in Bilbao -- I'm going to keep the anonymity to the site, now you'll know what. As someone who goes from town to town, I arrived on time, that is, long before the hour. I had just opened the tavern, just spent a while, with perfect music: Still Corners, The Michels Affair, etc. I didn't think it was a bad place to die. I would even like my own death to look like this: serene, light dumb to delight the soul, until death came suddenly – in this case, it was a noisy crew. No harm than my contact with the people also came.

To remain anonymous, I will just say that my contact responds to the initials MZ and that we could define it as our Michel Onfray. We have not been together for a long time, we have been unaware of many things, among the most interesting ones, those that relate to the well-known Basques of antiquity, which cannot be fully mentioned here – I hope to write about them at some time. But what I liked the most was the next walk. He took me to Fleming Square in the rain to see the sculpture of a doctor known for discovering penicillin. There she told me that this sculpture was financed by the prostitutes of the neighborhood, to thank, of course, for the savings of many diseases. History looks like it's a big landfill, but it's going to be owned by a molecule of granules that I've heard about a long time ago. As the Italians – and the pedants – would say, it is non-vero, è ben trovato.

On prostitution, the truth is that I am abolitionist, in favour of legalising, I have no clear opinion – and nobody has asked me to do so. The only thing I know is that few human practices cause in me a greater sense of repugnance. And that in the mouth of MZ, the greatest content in this story is also much more credible than that of real stories, if it has a little bit of mystery, of wisdom, of humor.