X feels like the end or beginning of something, he tells me, he’s not sure what. He just wishes it would either end or get on with it, he says, he’s had it with being bounced back and forth like this. It makes him feel wrong, he says, out of step. That’s why I’m so hesitant all the time, he says, and so embarrassed. I’m embarrassed about living like this, in this series of endless endings and false starts. Amateurish, he says, as if no one had ever lived before.
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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