It's the middle of winter. Nico is wearing his white tuxedo. He looks good in it, he thinks. An acquaintance who encounters him on the street bewilderingly says: 'You are wearing a summery outfit! Man, you must be crazy. you are shivering from the cold .`
That it makes Nico feel good apparently doesn't matter at all. White is a colour that does not suit him. Too frivolous. He has his white tuxedo painted black. Much better this way, he thinks. The shaking continues unimpeded. No sweat.  But even that is not good at all. Nico wants to suffer.

He is very been busy with the suit. Almost as if he experiences joy from it. And that is absolutely not the intention. Horrified he thinks of joy. Only primitive souls find delight in joy.

Once he gets home, he grabs a thick ski suit and puts it on, over it he wears his winter coat. He turns the heating up high. Sweating, he sits in his most uncomfortable chair. Highly unpleasant. Nico is tired of himself, of his own obsessions. And that's good, though it could always be better.

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