Every single day, as I pause in the middle of typing, or cooking, or reading, or practicing on the piano, or as I pause on the stairs, going up, going down, I can hear myself say: How did this happen? How can this be possible? How did I end up in this extremity called my life? It is a fact that these questions, unanswerable, fill in the gaps between two moments. They are not pebbles. They are not temporary. They make up that boulder that I cannot carry out of my abyss; my only way, so far as I can see, is to coexist with this boulder, in this abyss. Two hands, barely touching or with fingers
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