The words stopped coming. He enjoyed the respite at first, later less. Much less. He cleared away ripped pages, unwritten books. Sometimes they appeared when he was drunk. Then through a haze of phrases he came stalking meaning, like some Kasper Hauser trying to make sense out of a childhood murk. Was it him or the words? He listened to them and they spoke him; there was no getting behind them. But it was exquisite when they dropped into the right places. But fleeting. There were turns and fading paths, but there were vantage points too. Or rather walks that got you lost then brought you back as someone new. The words woke him at night, phrases in his head like worms in a box.
Everyone carries a room about inside him. This fact can even be proved by means of the sense of hearing. If someone walks fast and one pricks up one's ears and listens, say in the night, when everything round about is quiet, one hears, for instance, the rattling of a mirror not quite firmly fastened to the wall.
Notes for a fragmentary novel entitled The Moment, linked at the top of the page.
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