ed 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 have, I have said, crossing, having stood in the darkness, before the frigid, round, white moon, with the rooftops in confusion all around, the patios, floating, wandering — toward what? — giving the possibility, improbably, somewhere else, of a change of state, lightly, or gradually, even, against my cheeks, or behind, really, inside, has in fact diminished. Crossing the threshold now, and entering, so to speak, the illuminated bedroom. I am existing standing in the illuminated room, now, before the bed: and now I am taking off, carelessly, the blue wool jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair, taking off, slowly, my tie, unbuttoning the collar of my shirt. The tie, with wide diagonal stripes, gray and blue, I hang now on the back of the chair, over the blue jacket. Now I am taking off my white pullover, I am still taking off the white pullover, I am yanking the white pullover up to get it over my head, yanking it by the collar, and for a moment, now, for a moment, I see the illuminated room through the thick knit of the wool which transforms the whole space into a grid, pockmarked, really, with luminous points and black ones. And now I am putting down, after having arranged it a bit, pulling out the sleeves and folding it, the white pullover on top of the jacket and the tie, on the back of the chair. Now I am standing in shirtsleeves, fixed between the bed and the chair, in the illuminated room. There is, it seems, something that would like, so to speak, to come. It seems. Like a head of something that stretches up from below, from the bottom, really, just now: but no, nothing. Immobile, in the illuminated bedroom that is hard, inalterable, cold, guarded by the smoke, with the bed, the chair, the bookshelf — the same? always? — place. And now, still standing, I am using my heels to take off my shoes. My feet, so to speak, in blue socks, touch, now, the icy tile. My hands unfasten my belt, unbutton, unhurriedly, my fly: I am taking off, balancing first on my right leg, now on my left, lifting them to fold them over carefully, trying to match up the legs, and depositing them on top of the white pullover, on the back of the chair, still warm, my pants. I have said that I was taking off, carelessly, the blue wool jacket, and, I have said, hanging it on the back of the chair. And I have said: that I took off, slowly, my tie, that I undid the collar of my shirt, the tie with the wide diagonal stripes, gray and blue, the white shirt, hanging it on the back of the chair, on top of the blue jacket. That I yanked up, by the collar, my white pullover, to get it over my head, I have said, and that I saw for a moment, through the wool mesh that enveloped me, so to speak, I have said, the whole room transformed into a pockmarked image of luminous points and black ones. That I stood for a moment, fixed, so to speak, in the room. And I said, that there after having seemed, for a moment, that there was something that, as you might say, was trying to, or, deceptively, appearing to appear, I took off, using my heels, my shoes. I stepped onto the frozen tile in my blue socks, while my hands unfastened, unhurriedly, my belt, my fly, and I said that balancing first on my right leg, then on my left, lifting them to fold them over carefully, trying to match up the legs, and depositing them on top of the white pullover, on the back of the chair, still warm, gray flannel, my pants. And now I am unbuttoning the white shirt, shivering. My underwear, my blue socks, are now, on the yellow tile, three dark mounds. I am, for a second, immobile, completely naked, shivering: in the illuminated room, cold, between the ceiling and the yellow tile, between the yellow walls, naked, for a second, or a fraction of a second, really, sleepy, shivering. A second or a fraction of a second, adrift, inside of something sleepy, shivering. My entire skin, surrounded, entirely, by the air, squeezed by it, so to speak, and more than a moment, it is a state: or the beginning, perhaps, or the pretext, really, for a beginning, because earlier, others could: they would wet, slowly, thoroughly, bringing it afterward to their mouths, in the cup of tea, the cookie, they would let the sugared dough dissolve on the tip of their tongues, and from the contact would come, fiercely, wafting up — from what world? — memory. And now I am taking, from under the pillow, folded up, my orange frieze pajamas. And now, dressed in my pajamas, I am getting in between the frozen sheets, shivering. I am inside. And my hand, coming out from between the frozen sheets, slides along, brushing the rough surface of the yellow wall until it finds, smooth, the light switch. Now I am in the most perfect darkness. Nothing is visible, nothing, neither inside, nor outside, what is called nothing: and yet something happens, deliberately, so to speak, in the blackness, despite the apparent, not and just superficial, immobility. For a moment, as you might say, nothing happens, although I know — since when? — that something, inside, or inside of whatever, so to speak, makes the blackness flicker, is happening: in the most arduous darkness. And to see, now, it seems, yes, to see, out of this nothingness, if it is possible, like others, like before, to extract, like a dream, so to speak, a memory of something: because earlier, others could: they would wet, slowly, in the afternoon, in the kitchen, in the winter, the cookie in the cup of tea, they would bring it to their mouths and deposit it on the tip of their tongues, and from there, suddenly, or gradually, from the tongue, or from the sugared dough, from somewhere, like a vapor from the swamp, would rise, victorious, precise, memory, the memory that, not even knowing what memory is, nor if there is something, outside, to remember, could be the foundation, in the blackness, of something. To see something now: something that, while not the beginning, nevertheless, would serve to begin, or as an example of that which, having begun, would continue. To see, so to speak, to see something, I have said. To see, though your eyes might have, before them, nothing. I am, then, in the darkness, and looking, paying attention, I see rise, slowly, from the swamp, like a memory, the vapor: in a corner of the city, or of the mind, or to a corner, really, of the city, always, or of the mind, as I have said, so to speak, a moment ago, if moment can still, so to speak, mean, what comes coming — from where? — into a corner of the city, then, into the noonday sun, slowly, I float. I must be me, because I am myself, it seems, the one remembering. And the whole corner, with its sun, its crosswalks, its shop windows, the short shadows projecting onto the gray sidewalk, the cars, their chrome, fast, flashing, the houses, the bus full of students turning, slowly, from Mendoza onto San Martín, rise now from the swamp, shining, phosphorescent, wandering for a moment, and then fading. Nothing, now, and everything black again: and again, now, from below, from the bottom, if it is even conceivable that there is, so to speak, a bottom, the four corners, in the noonday sun, and the bodies that move, or are immobile, in the sun, the shop windows, the cars, the bus full of students that looks like it is from another city, inside of which one of the students, crouching, aims his camera at the sunny sidewalk toward which I am floating, slowly, toward the corner, shining, wandering, and nothing now: everything is black again. In the arduous or neutral, really, darkness, one realizes that, even so, something passes, and it seems it would be easier, if you like, to stop it than to find, in the confusion of the hours between murky visions, in the reluctance, a reason, ironclad, constant, and luminous, to want it: flowing, if you like, constantly, because, even eroding us, it can, so to speak, take nothing from us, since it would seem that there is nothing, or that we were given nothing, but nothing, to be taken. And it rises, now, tenacious, like a sun, in the sun again, the memory: the gray pavement onto which the short, passing shadows are neatly stamped, the four corners where people gather together, be they unemployed men warmed by pullovers of every color, who have been there since at least eleven watching the women who shuttle around San Martín dart again and again in and out of sho