The poet, though to be fair he never calls himself this, has lost count of the pints he’s drunk. The girl is keeping up with the empties. She’s pretty as a doll and has stuck a pencil in her bun. The pencil distracts him pleasurably. She’s fast but he’s an expert drinker, that much is true. His work is very profound and becomes more so as the night wears on. Though he’s an expert drinker the poet struggles to keep up with the girl as she moves about collecting glasses. He considers speaking to her but doesn’t. The following day even his eyeballs hurt and his work has turned into a perfect illustration of Romantic excess. Then the real self-work begins, to be undone again at some later stage.
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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