or, the image, questioning the dimple, to say, so to speak, and once and for all, something, questioning the table, the plate, questioning the chair, questioning the rising and setting of the sun, the rivers, the summer, questioning the leaves of books and the leaves of trees, the plains, the sand, testing, definitively, again, to see if something says, so to speak, something, questioning what is always, and since always has been, the same, indefinite, huge, with no borders to flow over or anything beyond those borders into which to overflow, fixed, neutral, flickering, place. Blurry, the two photographs, sixty-two thousand times, ubiquitous, are, nevertheless, nothing. They show nothing. Some confused stains, black, gray, white, that seem to be a desk, a chair behind, a wall, and between the desk and the wall, in the dark stains making up the floor, the stain, slightly darker, of a body, crumpled, face down, while there is still visible, below the dark stain of hair, a little gray stain, irregular, the face: the profile, its mouth open. And then, below, the second, a white stain: the wall. And upon the white stain, four — or five? — dark little stains, somewhere between gray and black: the bullets? — and that is, or would seem to be, from all the rest, all. Questioning, still questioning: the desk, the chair, questioning the four — or five — little stains somewhere between gray and black, on the wall, questioning the body fallen and crumpled, questioning the open mouth, the head, questioning day and night, and again the dimple, the green folder, the wall, questioning the trees, the leaves on the trees, questioning the streets, the white, vacuous faces, expressionless, to see, once more, if it is possible to say, about oneself or about anything, anything. Anything about the full, waving expanse, intersected, continuous, entering and exiting, again and again, the black bath, death, resurrection, resurrected death, and again death and again resurrection, adrift, moving from and moving toward nowhere, trembling, tremblingly present, to be seen, touched, heard, breaths that are clearly here and yet which come, the table, the desk, the dimple, the body fallen and fearful, the rising and setting of the sun, the bookcase, from what world? Floating, adrift, passing by, reappearing, disintegrating, crystallizing, in an arduous, dazzling, continuous wave. Now I am lighting a cigarette, the flame rising, after a tiny explosion, toward my mouth, and the smoke floats adrift, passing, reappearing, disintegrating, crystallizing in an arduous, dazzling, continuous wave. On the black head of the match which I hold upright, between my thumb and index finger, the orange flame waves, changes, and continues to be, if you like, the same, it twists, it waves, toward the left, toward the right, straight up, it winds around itself, slowly, on the wooden tip of the match, blackening it, consuming it, the flame that now descends toward my fingers, just as, above, the black wooden tip folds, breaks into pieces and yet does not, yet, crumble, the black tip breaks, at last, in two, when the flame reaches my fingers, provoking a hurried shake of my hand, whose movement, violent, repeated, puts it out. On my light gray pants, the black ash, its hard head still intact. While the thumb and forefinger of my left hand hold up the little stub of wood with its black tip, the fingers of my right delicately retrieve the ash, the little black head, from my pants, sprinkling it out, allowing it to fall between the chair and the bookcase, onto the floor. The little pieces, the specks, are hardly visible against the yellow tile. The fingers of my right hand have been, on the pad of my thumb, on the pad and the side of my forefinger, lightly on the pad of my middle finger, blackened with ash: black stains. There remains, between the fingers of my left hand, no longer than a quarter inch, with its black tip, mute, the little piece of wood: was there, once, something else, between my fingers, besides a little piece of wood, tiny, not more than a quarter inch long, with a blackened tip? Was there, in the air, moving, alive, orange, brilliant, between my fingers, a flame? The cigarette gives off smoke, consuming itself, in the ashtray. And if there was, once, between my fingers, brilliant, in the air, orange, a flame, where was it, so to speak, in what world? Was it, was it in the midst of being, is it, is it in the midst of being, is it still, is it still in the midst of being? It was, it was in the midst of being and it was being, it is, it is in the midst of being, it is still, it is still being. The stub with the black tip falls, when my fingers cease to hold it, upon the yellow tile. Now my blackened fingers pick up the cigarette from the ashtray, bringing it in a single, brusque motion to my mouth. For a moment nothing, so to speak, happens, nothing. From down below, from the television, there comes neither voices nor music: nothing. Nor from further away, from the streets, from the corners, from the sidewalks, from the houses, from the fixed lights that must be, in the same, in the night, in the cold, place: nothing. Nor from above, from the black air, in which shines, round, frigid, white, the moon, not there either, it would seem: nothing. There is only the smoke that rises, slowly diffusing in the bedroom, toward the light, veiling it, lightly, and the bed, the chair, the bookcase, my knees, the desk with the books, the papers piled up behind, against the yellow wall, the glass with the pencils, the pens, my hands, the picture on the wall, the green folder on which it must say, in large, irregular red letters, hurriedly printed, PARANATELLON. Emptiness, and up here, on the surface, sleepiness. Against an empty background that is not, in the strictest sense, any background at all, growing, shrinking, advancing, retreating, accumulating, drowsiness. And the convulsions that ought, by their violence, to dissipate it, are like the convulsions, of — in order to say it, I will say it this way — a dying animal, meant to startle a band of crows: a hurried flight, a fluttering return, and then, again, settling down, to devour. In reality it is unknown, now, where, so to speak, the border remains, nor where, in reality, remains reality. In, to say it somehow, the test tube of the body, the liquid, transparent or cloudy, of sleep, rises up to the eyes, it would seem, and suddenly, while not petrifying them, it coagulates them. Or an agitation, or an anthill, perhaps, that does not exactly agitate, but that expands, in order, setting out, from where? Toward the ends, from the center, toward the ends, that is, to put myself, in another, later, precise, dimension, having passed through a zone, so to speak, of turbulence. A dozing from which one could emerge — where? Or where one enters, you might say, more precisely, having emerged, and for a moment, a sort of, say, flash, from a polished, swift, precise piece of the world, that is nothing but, in memory, that which we call, or that which we believe should be, not just a piece, but the whole — the whole of — the world. Sleepiness, dozing: and the body, which should, at all times, hold fast, rests, or struggles with itself, more accurately, weak, asleep, while in front, or behind, or around, in the grayish smoke, the matter unwinds, one can, in this state, to hold fast to, that which we shall call, for the moment, nothing. Nothing from the ashtray, from the desk, from the green folder, from the two photographs, blurry, repeated, at once, sixty-two thousand times, nor from the dimple, either, nothing, except, monotonous, identical, stable, the shaking of my head. And below, successive, mobile, or immobile, perhaps, changing or identical, at all times, exceeding itself, the emptiness. Fixing my gaze on something, while my fingers bring the cigarette toward the desk and crush it, slowly, into the ashtray. Fixing my gaze. On something. While my fingers. The picture: stains, black, yellow, blue, green, reddish, gray, spinning, immobile, or stampeding, crowding each other, gathered, unstable, suspended, not of conflict, nor of ruins, but of imminence, with nothing, but nothing, neither from this side nor from the other, nothing more than a canvas of blue, yellow, green, black, gray, red (stampeding? suspended? gathering? scattering? before, during, after?) the catastrophe, if there is what we understand to be, or what should be, a catastrophe, and most importantly around what nucleus or what center: a black stain, superimposed, violently, upon a blue stain, strewn with a few broken black strokes, and below, a yellow stain divided, in the middle, by two winding green lines that, unexpectedly, almost immediately, arbitrarily, join, and below, at last, the fragments, suspended, or gathering, or stampeding. And still, the yellow stain is not entirely yellow, nor the blue stain entirely blue, nor are the green stains entirely green, nor are the red fragments entirely red, nor are the grays entirely gray, nor are the broken black strokes either entirely broken or entirely black — the green stains entirely green, nor the red fragments, the gray ones entirely, nor the black strokes, broken, no can one say, either, that there is no center, since the whole thing is, anyway, the center. The blue and black stains, above a wheat field, are supposed to be the sky, and the yellow stain, below the blue and black one that, above a wheat field, is supposed to be the sky, is supposed to be a wheat field, and the winding green lines that, arbitrarily, and suddenly, join, dividing in two the yellow stain that is supposed to be a wheat field, are supposed be a path, and the winding green, red, gray lines, that go along, without, nevertheless, joining, but rather dividing, to the left of the painting, from a common stain, the green lines that are supposed to be a path, one supposes that they, ubiquitous, are supposed to be the earth, and the broken black strokes, nervous, hurried, scattered, disorderly, stampeding, in flight, gathering, suspended, against the blue and black stain that is supposed to be the sky, against the yellow stain that is supposed to be the wheat field, are supposed to be — scattering? gathering? — crows from a common stain, the green lines that are supposed to be, one supposes, below, ubiquitous, the earth, the black strokes, hurried, nervous, stampeding, which are supposed to be, and above the blue and black stain, vague, yellowish, whitish, two circles, in an atmosphere not of catastrophe, nor of ruin, not of the day before nor the day after, but of imminence, so that before, or after, on this side, or on the other, there can be nothing, what is called nothing. Or fixing, my gaze that is, on something, on something else, and seeing, for a moment, what would be necessary, trying to force out of it, if it were even possible, for once, even if it were only a, to call it something, sign. But no, there is nothing: nothing on which to fix my gaze, nothing. Nothing I say, for the moment, nothing. And there comes, all at once, or appears, rather, all around, and right here, almost featureless, silence. Exhaustion: and silence that is — permanence? change? permanence and change? permanent change? No way — nothing, it would seem, would be disposed, on the outside, if someone, at some time, should ask something, to respond. Nor allow, either by accident, or above all on purpose, any part, of itself or of anything else, to be glimpsed. No: silence, from this side and from the other, and from this side, stable, dense, exhaustion. On neither side, for the moment, is there a sound that could be, so to speak, interpreted, or that coming, at once, from things, appearing, resonating, becomes, for a fraction of a second, intelligible, a voice, or would be, to put it better, or more deliberately, if you like, in an anonymous, even impersonal, for no one in particular, and from no one in particular, to call it something, call. I stand: the chair, creaking, breaks, so to speak, into pieces, for a moment, the silence, which at once, immediately, snaps shut again. I am standing, immobile, between the chair and the desk, beneath the light that the smoke, lightly, veils, and from below, from outside, no voice comes, no music, either, no sound, from the television. From outside, from below, now that I am standing, immobile, between the desk and the chair, from the place where they have been, or are still, and may, very well, still be being, even when they are, now, in the darkness of the bedroom, lying, no sound comes, no voice. Now that I am opening the door there comes, along with the cold unmoving air of June, from the far off clock, dark, imperceptible, a chime. Immobile again, in that door between the lit bedroom, full of smoke, hot, with the chair, the desk, the bed, the bookshelf, and the frigid terrace, bright, transparent, over which keeps watch, so to speak, from up above, icy, smooth, the moon. The echo of the chime resounds, for some moments, fleetingly, in me. It has said, even so, to me, and even having wanted, probably, to say something, nothing in particular: it could have been the chime for one o’clock, or for one thirty, or for quarter to two, or for quarter to one, or for twelve thirty, or for twelve fifteen, or also, probably — and why not? — the last stroke of midnight; or the last of eleven o’clock, or eleven fifteen, or even, probably, eleven thirty, or, much more likely, even, and probably, a quarter to twelve. I am standing at the doorway, between the bedroom and the terrace. And I am still being, but not, at the same time, seated in the chair. Am I still being, and not at the same time, seated in the chair? Am I still being seated in the chair and am I still being standing immobile on one side of the chair with the echo of the creak that has broken, for a moment, the silence, and am I still being crossing the space between the chair and the door, and am I still being hearing, as I open the door, dull, far off, the chime, while I am existing, immobile, standing, looking in the direction of the cold darkness, in the doorway between the bedroom and the terrace? Am I? Am I still? And if I am, if I am still, where am I and am I still, in what world? In one from which there comes, for now, no call. No voice, in effect, to obey, nor, to direct, so to speak, when I move, my footsteps: no, I am standing, immobile, not going anywhere, in the doorway, looking toward the terrace at what is watched over by, from above, frigid, the moon, my back to the illuminated bedroom onto which the smoke settles, delicately, a mist, and I have been crossing, slowly, the space between the chair and the door, I have been opening the door, I have been standing immobile for a moment next to the chair, I have been standing up from the chair, having been seated, in silence, and still failing to hear, from anywhere, what I would say is, what we may say is, what we could call, austerely, a direction, immediately, imperceptibly, almost inaudible, coming from outside, a call. Nor does a call move me now, to cross, so to speak, the doorway, taking a step, just one step, toward the terrace, toward the cold, to cross, as if for the first time, or, plain and simple, for the first time, the threshold: and there is, there is an inaudible roar, when I pass, without the bookshelf, without the chair, without the desk, without the