It’s obvious, X tells me, I have to go mad. Balls-out mad, right-round-the-bend-looney-tunes mad. I have to pass over to the other side, that’s the only sane thing to do. Real madness, not all this shit, he says, pointing around. Maybe then I’ll be real, maybe we’ll be real.
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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