And Moreira! Moreira, my supervisor, the epitome of monotonous constancy, looks much more alive than I! Even the office boy (and here I’m unable to repress a feeling that I tell myself isn’t envy) has a forthrightness of expression that is smiles away from my blank effacement, reminiscent of a sphinx from the stationer’s.* What does this mean? What is this truth that film doesn’t mistake? What is this certainty that a cold lens documents? Who am I, that I should look like that? Anyway… And the insult of the whole ensemble? ‘You came out really well,’ Moreira said suddenly. And then, turning to
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