` Lucid, forlorn, consciousness is walled-up; it perpetuates itself. Nobody lives there any more. A
little while ago someone said "me," said my consciousness. Who? Outside there were streets, alive
with known smells and colours. Now nothing is left but anonymous walls, anonymous consciousness.
That is what there is: walls, and between the walls, a small transparency, alive and impersonal.
Consciousness exists as a tree, as a blade of grass. It slumbers, it grows bored. Small fugitive
presences populate it like birds in the branches. Populate it and disappear. Consciousness forgotten,
forsaken between these walls, under this grey sky. And here is the sense of its existence: it is conscious
of being superfluous. It dilutes, scatters itself, tries to lose itself on the brown wall, along the lamp post
or down there in the evening mist. But it never forgets itself. That is its lot. There is a stifled voice
which tells it: "The train leaves in two hours," and there is the consciousness of this voice. There is
also consciousness of a face. It passes slowly, full of blood, spattered, and its bulging eyes weep. It is
not between the walls, it is nowhere. It vanishes; a bent body with a bleeding face replaces it, walks
slowly away, seems to stop at each step, never stops. There is a consciousness of this body walking
slowly in a dark street. It walks but it gets no further away. The dark street does not end, it loses itself
in nothingness. It is not between the walls, it is nowhere. And there is consciousness of a stifled voice
which says: "The Self-Taught Man is wandering through the city."
snowghoul
yousharknotpass
amandla
romaincrisis
jacobvanloon
dailybridgerton
titsay
