were years, abandoned, outside, in the world, something that could be, in one way or another, so to speak, recovered, and that there was, therefore, somewhere, what they called or what they believed ought to be — isn’t it? — a world. And now, I bring to my mouth, for the second time, the cookie soaked in tea and from it I take, tasting it, nothing, what is called nothing. I soak the cookie in the cup of tea, in the kitchen, in the winter, and raise my hand, quickly, to my mouth, I leave the sugared dough, warm, on the tip of my tongue, for a moment, and I begin to chew, slowly, and now that I am swallowing, now that there is not even a trace of flavor, I know, definitively, that I take nothing, absolutely nothing, what is called nothing. Now there is nothing, not even a trace, not even a memory of flavor: nothing. The florescent light, flickering imperceptibly, plunges into and pulls out from darkness, alternately, in the afternoon, the kitchen. I stand, with the cup in my hand, and step out into the blue semidarkness. It is cold and scintillating. The stairs are there, bare, going up to the terrace. Now I am moving forward, in the blue air, on the terrace, and in the blue semidarkness, up above, in the sky, is the moon. The great yellow circle begins, so to speak, to sparkle. And in the blue semidarkness, from the center of the open terrace, the roofs, the terraces, the illuminated windows, the apartment buildings, the six o’clock murmur that rises, monotonous, from the streets, as I go, with the cup in my hand, toward my room. Now I am sitting before the table, the empty cup beside my hands resting on top of the green folder where it says, in red ink, in large, printed letters, PARANATELLON. I am immobile: one hand resting on the other, on top of the closed green folder, where it says, in red ink, in irregular, hurried, large printed letters, PARANATELLON. The empty cup to one side, next to the folder, against a background of piled-up books, of papers, and a glass full of pencils, fountain pens, ballpoints. And on the yellow wall, raising my head, framed by four black bars, inside four wide white margins, the Wheatfield with Crows. I think of nothing, what is called nothing. And I remember nothing: no vapor rises — from where? — nothing. Nor am I anywhere else: it is always, now, the same, cold, with the piled-up books, and the papers, and the Wheatfield with Crows, place. I am existing, always, now, in the same, with the empty cup and my hands crossed over the PARANATELLON, on the table, place. And now I am standing, I am going through the terrace, black now, among the light fixtures that sparkle, in a circle, around me, from the roofs and the windows and the terraces that have been erased, seeing the round, cold, hard moon that shines, unwavering, in the sky. In the sky at seven, in winter, is, cold, round, shining unwaveringly, I have said, the moon. And I have said that earlier, others could, they would wet, slowly, in the afternoon, in the kitchen, in the winter, the cookie, and would raise, afterward, their hands, from the cup of tea to their mouths, leaving the sugared dough, for a moment, on the tip of their tongues, and immediately — and from where? — there ascended, like a vapor, memory. And I have said: that I would leave the kitchen behind, I would enter the blue air and go up, the cup in my hand, the stairs. With the cup in my hand: the stairs. There was, in the sky at six, hard, brilliant, unwavering, the moon. And I have said: that the florescent, light, flickering imperceptibly, would plunge into and pull out, alternately, entirely, from the darkness, the kitchen. Now I am existing at the edge of the staircase, in the cold, dark air of eight: and now I am existing on the last stair, I am existing on the second to last stair, I am existing on the third to last stair now. On the fourth to last now. And now I am existing on the first stair. I have said that others, in another, so to speak, place, would wet, for a moment, in the cup of tea, the cookie, would bring it, in an instant, to their mouths, letting it rest for a moment on the tip of their tongues, and would begin, then, to drain, so to speak, from the dense block, years, because there would have been, still, for them, or in them, years, and I have said that I used to be going up, afterward, with the cup in my hand, the stairs, that I used to be crossing, in the blue semidarkness, the terrace, that I looked at, alternately, the cold moon, the clear lights, whirling, immobile, in place, around the roofs, the black patios, the terraces, and that, later, I used to be looking at the yellow, blue, green, black, grayish stains, framed, with a lot of white, inside black bars, that before a disorderly background of papers, of books, there used to be the empty cup, my hands crossed over the green folder, beneath the hurried, irregular letters in red ink, that said PARANATELLON, that I used to be existing, first on the last stair, on the second to last, on the third to last, on the fourth to last, on the first stair, on the patio, going again, with the empty cup, to the kitchen that is plunged into and pulled out, again and again, in place, imperceptibly, like everything else, from the darkness. The flow from the tap falls upon the empty cup, and the steaming water spills over. From the living room come the television’s peculiar voices, and amplifying them, from below, or more precisely from above, or behind, if you will, in bursts, the music. As one. The cold, fibrous meat and the bread from this morning, mashed, mixed, pass, in pieces, down my throat. The black wine dissolves them and pushes them down, toward the bottom. They must be, in the darkness, one after the other, descending. They must be depositing on the bottom, where mechanisms must have started, already, to work. And when I stand, the food, which is already a memory, stays, in another, so to speak, and in the one where I am still existing, and that should, nevertheless, be the same, place. Now I am existing on the first stair, in the darkness, in the cold. Now I am existing on the second stair. On the third stair now. Now I am existing on the second to last stair. Now I was or I am still existing on the first stair and I was or I am still existing on the first and the second stair and I was or I am existing, now, on the third stair, and I was or I am existing now on the first and on the second and on the fourth and on the seventh and on the third to last and on the last stair. No. I was first on the first stair, then I was on the second, then I was on the third stair, then I was on the third to last, then I was on the second to last, and now I am existing on the last stair. No. I was and I am existing. I was, I was in the midst of being, I am existing, I am in the midst of being, and I am now, having been being, being now on the empty blue terrace, over which shines, round, cold, the moon. Immobile, in the sky, smooth, erasing, around it, the stars, and before me, and refractory, in its way, flat, imaginary, just a name, a word, the moon. In the icy bedroom, I turn on the light. On the table, against a disorganized background of books, of papers, to one side of the glass full of pencils, of ballpoint pens, red, black, green, blue, the green folder, closed, on whose cover I am writing, in large, hurried, nervous letters, with red ink, PARANATELLON. And on the wall, above the desk, with a lot of white around it, behind glass, the Wheatfield—but is it really a field? Is it really of wheat? — with Crows, and one could, honestly, ask oneself if they are, honestly, crows. They are, more accurately, stains, chaotic blue, yellow, green, black, stains that get more chaotic the closer one gets, stains, a stain, imprecise, that is called a stain, and just as well, because otherwise it would be impossible to know what is, or is not, part of everything: a limit. And the flame of the match I bring, carefully, toward the cigarette hanging from my lips, undulates, a stain, yellow and blue, mobile, and stretches, then re-forms, when I blow on it, several times, before it goes out. The smoke rises, in the bedroom, immobile. It continues, so to speak, to diffuse. In the illuminated air, arabesques and engravings, and a fine vapor, grayish now, hang suspended, especially around the lamp. Down below they must be hearing, in the living room, the television’s peculiar voices, and behind them, and below, or around, if you will, intermittent, the music. Intermittent, the television’s peculiar voices, they must be hearing, down below, in the living room, that is another, with the flickering bluish light, the two of them sitting in the chairs since the afternoon, in the semidarkness, place. As, into the ashtray, on the table, I tap my cigarette, the smoke makes everything tremble, coming apart. Because earlier, others, so to speak, could: from a round, unpolished face, with a dimple, just one, on the right cheek, from eyes, and from a forehead where black hair, brushed back, springs forth, from the wide mouth, open, or closed, they were able, projecting out, to take some signal, some message, some evidence or, even better, a certainty, like, so to speak, a diamond in the rough. From one signal to the next, from a message, or from a certainty, they would cast out, so to speak, lines, and they would put down, in the world, like a mother giving birth, into space, solid, visible, external, or like a dove, in the air, flying, imaginary, in the emptiness, irrefutable, a construction that would serve: a measurement that, simply by existing, would slice up, take apart, classifying, dividing into front, back, after, before, above, below, now, the vague, wandering, continuous stain, identical at every point, without a center, and darker, less defined, without a limit. No message, for me, from this dimple, that appears, with laughter, alone, on the right cheek, no certainty to take: nothing. And the smoke from the cigarette that I take, at this moment, from between my lips, rises, deliberately, intact, toward the ceiling. There should be being around me — illuminated, cold, the straight and deserted streets that intersect every hundred yards, constant — the city. Around me, concentric, squeezing me, like rings, the throng of houses, in one of whose rooms, in each, the same image flickers, bluish, errantly brushing the expressionless, empty faces, changing, organized, manifest, on the television: clusters of given worlds, inside of one, more arduous, that never manifests. They must be about to be, as, toward the ceiling, deliberately, the blue smoke rises, around me, undivided, the city, like a wagon, so to speak, traveling — on what road? and toward what? — in black space. They must be hearing, in each room, in the semidarkness, the voices, and above, or behind, intermittent, the music. The same, for each one, and different, for all the others, and just one, and the same one, for no one, with every one and each one of the rooms, and every one and each one of the steely lights flickering, place: clusters of given worlds, the houses, the trees, the terraces, the streets that intersect every hundred yards, the buildings bleached, like bones, by the moon, the black parks, the rivers, the dirty bars, still open, the murky silhouettes of the last passersby who become easier to make out as they cross, diagonally, below the hanging streetlight, at the corner, the occasional buses, half empty, that, illuminated, go roaring down the avenues, the glass of their windows clouded over with frost, the trash bins waiting, in the cold, for morning, the cars that can be heard suddenly, far away, the streets of the city center, more brilliant, for a moment, than the others, the entire stony collection set inside another, more arduous, that never manifests. And my hand, stubbing out, in the ashtray, on the table, the cigarette, shakes itself out, naked, rough, the skin full of cracks, the nails smooth, pink, trimmed, the hand that has touched, again and again — and when? — with its wrinkled fingers, the dimple, the hand that, having touched the dimple, again and again, has touched, so to speak, nothing, has taken, from the contact, nothing, neither experience, nor certainty, nor a message, nor a sign, nor a memory: nothing. Nothing, unless it might be, fluctuating, the belief that something, slightly higher up, on my forehead and behind it, imaginatively, bottomless, black, flashes, sometimes, from certain bodies, fleetingly, emotions, memories, pleasure, desire, despair, hunger. Nothing that would fall outside of those galaxies, outside of the huge black space without form, without feeling, without direction, with nothing but the wandering ebb and flow, from those phosphorescent flashes, from that brilliance that streaks past, leaving behind a burning tail that is erased, gradually, in time, by the emptiness, or that emerge, from the bottom, if there is, so to speak, a bottom, that sparkle, for a moment, and then, in the same silence, with the same deliberation, without leaving a trace, fade away, flickers of red, green, yellow, wandering violet, white, whose message no one, though they might scrutinize, attentively, that stellar map, can, so to speak, capture — because they say, and there can be said about them, nothing and nothing. The glimmers that sometimes flash, hurriedly, unexpectedly, outside, like sighs, like a voice, like laughter, do not come, perhaps, from that swamp, from that stain. They come, simply, from outside, from the membrane that separates out, so to speak, from the infinite, the real. My hand, which has been known to pass, in other times, without leaving or receiving a trace, comes from the dimple and passes, warm, over my face. For a moment, everything is erased: the yellow wall, the table with the ashtray and the books, with the green folder on which must be written, in red, irregular printed letters, PARANATELLON, the stains crisscrossed with black, with white, the blue, yellow, black stains, the floating smoke, the light, the bookshelf. Everything in the galaxy is confused, startled, and remains trembling for a moment when my hand slides along, gripping at, the membrane. And as my hand heads slowly, to reunite, over my abdomen, with its mate, the galaxy, the black space, gradually stills, while from the other side of the membrane appears, further on, the desk, the pile of books behind, against the wall, the glass with the pencils, the folder on which I am writing, in large printed letters, with red ink, hurried and irregular, PARANATELLON. I was and I am about to be and I am about to be about to be — in large printed letters, PARANATELLON. And now I am holding, again, in my hands, the green folder on which is written, in red ink, in large, irregular letters, hurriedly printed, PARANATELLON. And now I am putting down, again, onto the desk — without opening it? — the folder. There it is, the cold bedroom, flickering, in which each thing is, and I myself am, in the same, coming and going from somewhere even in its apparent repose, place. In the cold bedroom, flickering, there is a bed, a green desk, a folder, books, papers piled up behind, a bookshelf, flickering, coming into and going out of, as you might say, something, in the same, always, apparently, place. There they are: the bookshelf, the folder, the chair, my knees, the ashtray, the door, mute, always in the same, with the