How to this day as they say I wake up with your face in my hands and your scent all around me. How our youth stays with us in these humiliations by desire, in floods of more or less clichéd phrases we must finally disown (or stage as another’s ordeal or transform into affirmations of absence): outbursts of fullness and tenderness, the extreme solitude of unequal love, you left a hole I can’t fill, etc. Dream my sleep, ache my ache for this now unreal almost meaningless ‘you’ turned inwards. These fragments poor substitutes having arisen as substitutes; these night refrains all leading back to ‘you’, repeated over and over like tributes or penances.
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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