Sunnudagur, 30. mars 2003
(Svona skrifa bara snillingar. Vanlíđan Marlowes sem lýst er međ ţessum orđum í The Little Sister eftir Chandler nćr svona sammannlegri, alţjóđlegri skírskotun rétt eins og hćgan, hćgan kaflinn í Sjálfstćđu fólki. Svona líđur mér a.m.k. á hverjum degi.)
The office was empty again. No leggy brunettes, no little girls with slanted glasses, no neat dark men with gangsters´eyes.
I sat down at the desk and watched the light fade. The going home sounds had died away. Outside the neon signs began to glare at one another across the boulevard. There was something to be done, but I didn´t know what. Whatever it was it would be useless.