There are strange, lucid mornings, I tell X, when it’s as if I see all my things anew,  like when I first moved into my flat. An uncanny silence descends on everything, I say, like an interruption… I drink my tea, leave the flat and slowly the world’s white noise returns, a murmur that beckons me through the city and merges with its noises and shouts, with the rippling of leaves and the cooing of pigeons, with all the city’s signs and disorders. It moves in and out of my own voice, I say, inside and outside, close and distant — is it you, I ask? No, of course it isn’t.


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