I’m nothing but the exterior of my body: skin, hair, nails, eyes. I go to the shops with a weightless feeling, being hollow inside. I head for the city hall on some obscure mission, with shopping bags I find hard to carry, and when I reach the door I crumple and wake up.
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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