‘Unreal, unreal. Wasn’t that the truth, that I was unreal, that the world was unreal to me, as unreal as to a foetus in the womb? Unreal, unreal. Wasn’t that my secret, wasn’t that what had made the world meaningless and frightening, in the beginning? A pane of glass in front of things, mist hanging over things, mist in the head. Unreal, unreal.’


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