X can never reach out and fix on an opinion again, he tells me. No more truths, he says. He’s been picked apart from the inside by truths as if by a virus and his trust is gone, especially his trust in himself, he says. He’s horrified by himself, by his infinite capacity to prove himself wrong. He’s in one of those moods, he tells me, making quote fingers. Maybe he just needs to get laid, he says.
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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