Saturday. You sleep. You sit in front of the screen. Nothing, as usual. But the onus isn’t on you to insert yourself into the world, to make your mark. Don’t listen to me. But you have to, I’m the one who makes you. Open your notebook. Nothing. It’s laughable. But are we laughing? Sit up straight. You have to. But maybe there’s a kind of writing, or being, that exists with or alongside this nothingness that greets you every morning, in every room. Something out of nothing, nothing out of something.
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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