I am waiting for an arrival, a return, a promised sign. I am waiting for no more than a telephone call, but the anxiety is the same. Everything is solemn: I have no sense of proportions.
(The anxiety of waiting is not continuously violent; it has its matte moments; I am waiting, and everything around my waiting is stricken with unreality: in this cafe, I look at the others who come in, chat, joke, read calmly: they are not waiting.)

Roland Barthes