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The seconds were ticking by. He was conscious of nothing except the blankness of the page in front of him, the itching of the skin above his ankle, the blaring of the music, and a slight booziness caused by the gin.
only imperfectly aware of what he was setting down.
But even that was a memorable event, in the locked loneliness in which one had to live.
Nothing was your own except the few cubic centimeters inside your skull.
pocket of the past where extinct animals could walk.
hang on from day to day and from week to week, spinning out a present that had no future, seemed an unconquerable instinct, just as one's lungs will always draw the next breath so long as there is air available.
By lack of understanding they remained sane.
He had moved from thoughts to words, and now from words to actions.
