Your blind pale face below the surface, just beneath my reflection. Open your eyes, wake up. You’re asleep, submerged, your life is a dream. If it weren’t for me, for my gaze, you’d float away, your back to the sky, hair and limbs adrift in the current… And if it weren’t for you? I’d float off too, into the air, and take up with someone else, go and raise some other rootless semi-spirit.
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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