The spines of the books stand side by side. I still know them and remember how I arranged them. I beg them with my eyes: Speak to me—take me in—take me in, you past life—you carefree, beautiful life—take me in again— I wait, I wait. Images pass by, they don’t last, they are only shadows and memories. Nothing—nothing. My unease is growing. A terrible feeling of alienation suddenly rises up in me. I can’t find my way back, I’m shut out; no matter how I might beg and strive, nothing changes, I sit there indifferent and sad, like a condemned man, and the past turns away. At the same time, I’m
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