"I have a longing to recount to you, the pleasure that I find in watching, without stirring from my table, a boy who each day at the same hour comes to lean out a window on the rue d’Alleray. At nine o’clock he opens the window, he wears a small blue bathtowel, or similarly blue underwear; he leans his head on his arms, burying his face in his elbow … hunting for dreams extremely strong, intense, exhausting, leaving him in a great (flute, more blue paper) despondency … And then briskly, he stands up, he sits down at a table where he must read? Write? Type? I do not know; I only see the naked elbow and shoulder; and I ask myself what dreams his eyes have drawn from the fold of his arms, what words or drawings can burst forth; but I tell myself that I am the only one to have seen, from the outside, taking shape and losing shape, the graceful chrysalis where they were born. This morning the window remained closed; in place of which I am writing to you."
-from a letter Michel Foucault wrote to Hervé Guibert on July 28, 1983