But that didn’t justify my stay here. I had to write. But what? Five days in succession could pass without me saying a word to anyone. Everything was unfamiliar, the houses, the people, the shops, the countryside, no one needed me, no one cared about me, and that was perfect, that was exactly how I wanted it, just walking around and looking, and looking at everything in existence without it looking back. But to what end? And with what justification? What was the point of looking if you couldn’t write about what you saw? What was the point of experiencing anything at all if you couldn’t write
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