Sometimes we get along, don’t we? X asks as we walk along the seafront on a quiet morning. Sometimes we’re calm and free. Sometimes we get lucky and like the same thing at the same time. Sometimes you meet someone who seems to know me, someone with a hanger-on like me. Then we can relax, he says, sometimes.
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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