Publisher's presentation : One week she's been holding. One week she hasn't given in. Adele has been good. In four days, she ran thirty-two kilometers. She went from Pigalle to the Champs-Élysées, from the Musée d'Orsay to Bercy. She ran in the morning on the deserted quays. At night, on the boulevard Rochechouart and the place de Clichy. She did not drink alcohol and she went to bed early. 
But this night, she dreamed about it and could not go back to sleep. A sweaty, never-ending dream, which entered her like a breath of hot air. Adele can't think of anything else. She gets up, drinks a strong coffee in the sleeping house. Standing in the kitchen, she rocks from one foot to the other. She smokes a cigarette. In the shower, she wants to scratch herself, to tear her body in two. She bangs her forehead against the wall. She wants to be seized, to break her skull against the glass. As soon as she closes her eyes, she hears the noises, the sighs, the screams, the blows. A naked man panting, a woman orgasming. She would like to be only an object in the middle of a horde, to be devoured, sucked, swallowed whole. That one pinches her breasts, that one bites her belly. She wants to be a doll in the garden of the ogre.