Nietzsche was sitting at his desk, writing and thinking. The atmosphere was somewhat somber and dark, but with a strange, cozy quality. He was talking with someone else: you.

You were sitting next to him, though not too close, just close enough to read what he was writing in his notebook and hear him clearly. These intellectual encounters had become a habit. You would go to his house one day a week to give him some books and, in the process, chat with him for hours. It was intellectually stimulating.

"So, lately, I feel like I can't find quality books, only the ones you bring me. Of course, you're a wealthy girl" He says in a serious tone while writing in his notebook