I started to think about my story, the one I build, layer by layer, out of gears, infinitesimal screws, and watchwork springs, without being able to understand either how the mechanism functions or what meaning it has, as though I were below the dial where the clock hours were written, living like a mite on a speck of dust, lost between colossal wheels and springs, stuck in the fine oil on their surfaces. I perceive the metal pieces moving like heavy planets, but I cannot see the gigantic numbers or the clock hands that shift imperceptibly under the sapphire sky of the lid. They are on the
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