translation of michel houellebecq's "la fin de la soirée" , an attempt

At the end of the evening, there is an inevitable disgust. There is a sort of mapping of terror. Well, I don't know; I think. 

The emptiness within, expanding. That. Untethered from any possible occurrence. As if you were suspended in the void, equidistant from any real action by forces, magnetic and monstrous. 

Suspended thus, powerless in your grip on the world, the night will seem long. And in fact, it will be. But it will be, though, a protected night; but you will not appreciate this protection. Only later will you appreciate it, once you've returned to the city, once you've returned to the daytime, once you've returned to the world.

At around nine in the morning, the world will have reached its peak activity. The world simply be turning, lightly snoring. You will have to take part in it though, throw yourself at it, like one leaps for the steps of a train car already leaving the station. 

But you will not reach it. Once again you will await night time – which yet, once again, will bring you despair, doubt, and terror. This will happen, again and again, until the end of the world. 

from 

Le Sens du combat,

Editions Flammarion, 1996

note: the word "écœurement" is translated to "disgust" which is probably too vague. it's a great word which is like nausea, but whereas nausea for me is really in the stomach, this like a nausea localized to the heart. always interesting to think about body parts and what words and feelings are mapped to them.