When you are living, nothing happens. The settings change. People come in and go out, that's all. There are never any beginnings. Days are tacked on to days without rhyme or reason, it is an endless, monotonous addition.
I who am listening, I exist. Everything is full, existence everywhere, dense and heavy and sweet. But, beyond all this sweetness, inaccessible, quite close, so far away alas, young, merciless, and serene, there is this...this rigour.
I must say how I see table, the street, people, my packet of tobacco, since these are the things which have changed. I must fix the exact extent and nature of this change.