Wheatfield with Crows, the light lightly veiled by the smoke, into the other place. It is other and, even so, it is, and no bigger, the same — moving? still? — place. Nor does a call, now, fix me in this place, immobile, make me turn now, and make me, now, cross again, in the opposite direction — and why direction? why opposite? — the, to call it something, threshold. And if there were, that is, what we could call, so to speak, a meaning, that is, a break, arbitrary, laughable, in the huge stain that moves — how? where? and most of alclass="underline" why? — if there were, between two points, one that we could call the beginning, the other the end, or, respectively, the cause and the effect, one could say that, without receiving a call, without a purpose, I pass, from the beginning to the end, from the illuminated bedroom to the frigid terrace, I return, you might say, through the doorway, and, with no call having intervened, no call, from end to beginning, from effect, so to speak, to cause, from the dark, cold terrace to the bedroom whose light, tenuously, is veiled by smoke, then no one, but no one, could really say how, or where, or when, or, most of all, why. Now I am standing immobile, my back to the terrace, beneath the light enveloped in smoke, facing the yellow wall, at one point in the room, between the chair and the door. At one point. In the room. Between the chair. And the door. At one point in the room, between the chair and the door. At one point? At one point in the room? Between the chair? Between the chair and the door? At one point in the room between the chair and the door? I am existing, standing, facing the terrace now, the open door, at a point in the room, that is, in turn, at some point, immobile, that is in turn at some point, between the chair and the door. Now I am crossing, slowly, so to speak, the doorway: and there resounds, in the air, for the first time, inaudible, the roar: but no, no, not the first: it re-sounds, nothing more, inaudible, the roar, as I cross, so to speak, slowly, the doorway. The cold air touches, or brushes, or settles onto my cheeks. I go forth, slowly, toward the center of the terrace, below the moon: frigid, round, yellow, keeping watch, all around, over the stars. And all in a circle, and all around, the city: another, at some point, with its dark blocks, its files of streetlamps, its tree-lined patios, its subtle sounds, permanent, or changing, perhaps, chaotic, silent, place. And the lights, in the vast, tranquil darkness, indicate, each one, in its spot, a fixed, limited, brilliant, place. There is, certainly, somewhere, behind me, another point, illuminated, with the desk, the chair, the bookcase, the green folder on which I have written, in large red, irregular, hurriedly printed letters, PARANATELLON. Is there, somewhere, illuminated, full of smoke, with the light, the bed, the picture, and the chair, that place? From the moon, with its frigid light, there descends, so to speak, no sound. And I think, moreover, of nothing. For the moment, now, no sound, nothing. No bird, singing, in the darkness, up above, to somewhere else, standing out, for a moment, black, sharp, against the sky, and no sign, either, that something, at this moment, might be about, you might say, in the sky, or here, around, to move, or to flutter: nothing. Nor any shadow disengaging itself, so to speak, from the shade, nor changing smoothly, its place: not that either: nothing. Except, naturally, exhaustion, and above, round, frigid, keeping watch, all around, and for the moment, over the stars, the moon. The cold coils around me. The cold that should have, that should, rather, or perhaps, I don’t know anymore, that would, if you will, or that, probably, having crossed from the heat of the room, the enclosed space, through the doorway, and hitting, suddenly, my cheeks, that should have, it seems, diminished, you might say, has, on the contrary, in effect, increased, on my face, or, perhaps, behind it, paradoxically, my sleepiness. That is the way it should have been, as usual, apparently diminishing as I stepped outside, and yet, on the contrary, apparently, or more precisely you might say that, on my face, or more precisely behind, it had been, so to speak, precisely, increased. Wandering, floating, or immobile, perhaps, the darkness brings, frozen, in a continual flow, the moon, the stars, lights, blocks, trees, around, and brings them back, slowly, again, giving the illusion, paradoxically, of motionlessness, floating around, stars, lights, trees. Unexpectedly, on the contrary, and from somewhere else, rather than having, as might be expected, effectively, diminished, it seems to have, the sleepiness, behind, or inside, better now, clearly, having gone, from the illuminated bedroom, slowly, through the doorway, in the darkness, sharply, to have increased. Crossing, coming, or settling onto, already, in the darkness, opening up, so to speak, the cold, in solidarity with my sleepiness, or even better, one with it, envelopes me, now, increasing it and not, as it should have, diminishing it. Everything is one. It seems possible now to make out nothing: there would seem to have been, effectively, so to speak, no separation, nor, would there seem to be, as it seems that there should be, an inside, an in front, an outside, an in back, an, imaginary, all around: no, nothing. Out in the cold darkness are, so to speak, the terrace, and also the moon, and swept together, chaotically, strewn about, the black patios, and the trees, the houses, the lights, the stars as well, cold, green, immobile, everything inside, probably, of something and traveling — wandering, you might say, more precisely, and, without, to say it somehow, direction, and without, for the moment, cohesion, the mass curve that seems to continually consume itself, and continues, nevertheless, to be the same, and that being, nevertheless, fixed, in place, at all times, in its own place — toward what? — passes, it would seem, hurriedly in a certain sense, and departs. Everything, for the moment, it seems, would be, you might say, one: without, so to speak, any particularity, with no inside, or outside, and no, so to speak, delightful, happy, diversity — the flow, without intermissions, without rhythm, without origin, which now, so to speak, drifts, and which will be, it would seem, always, the same, with its moons, its stars, its abandoned blocks, its cold terraces, the desk, the chair, the bookshelf, the point between the chair and the door, reincarnating itself, consuming itself — where? when? and most of all, why? — to call it something, place. It is, for the moment, being, as you might say, continuous, entire, in its place: exhaustion, useless, fragmented, leaving no impression, a magma, to express it somehow, and nothing, but nothing, to take from it. I am seemingly standing, then, immobile, on the cold terrace, it would seem, yes, momentarily, yet I am able to take, from all of this, nothing. It is a state that, you might say, should not be, or should not have been, anyway, in the condition, or perhaps the node, or the root, should not have been, or should not, rather, and yet, it seems, apparently, to confuse, or fuse, erasing the limits, if the expression could, at this moment, say, precisely, something, it should not have, I have said, or should not, would not have been, really, apparently, confused or fused. One could say, so to speak, somehow, flowing, and being, once again, always, in the same place, there is nothing left to flow, no other — no other, that is, somewhere else, where it is not flowing, fixed, as I have said, place. And now I am turning around, I am leaving behind the moon, the stars, and chaotic, silent, the city. I am, at this moment, turning, leaving, so to speak, behind me, guarded, the stars, the moon, and chaotic, in chiaroscuro, the city. And I continue, so to speak, to move forward, to the left, on the inside now — in what world? — to the right, passing, and not just in space — to what place? — to the left, once again an abyss, the right again and again everything, everything remains, so to speak, forever, behind me: moving forward, immobile, blurry, in the darkness, in the cold, having erased, imperceptibly, the limits: inside, outside, below, above, around, before, now, after. The left, the right, the left, the right, the left, the right: floating, wandering, never hearing what we call, to call it something, a call, that imposes, arbitrarily, what you might call, so to speak, a direction, in some part, sleepiness, nodding, with nothing startling to bring forth an awakening, and what stands out, despite all of this, is the exhaustion, as if it were, or as if it were possible to be certain that there is, or that there could be, in another moment, another state. It is, it would seem, or is being, really, although it would be, really, difficult, if you like, to fix it in a given moment, right then, right there, it would seem, without it having to declare, as usual, in that continuous, curved, perhaps, flow, in which slowly, ravaged, blindly, it drifts, where it should have been, or should be, really, would have, yes, or no, should have been, really, should have, yes, or should? Yes, or no, actually, I’ve said should have, crossing, although if I had remained I would have, anyway, in a certain sense, stayed in it, the doorway, with the fragile, inaudible roar, that should, or should have, yes, should have, instead of, unexpectedly, I said, and perhaps, also, somehow, to call it something, imperceptibly, increased, that should ha