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The roar of the traffic, the passage of undifferentiated faces, this way and that way, drugs me into dreams; rubs the features from faces.


People might walk through me.


And what is this moment of time, this particular day in which I have found myself caught? The growl of traffic might be any uproar - forest trees or the roar of wild beasts.


Time has whizzed back an inch or two on its reel; our short progress has been cancelled. I think also that our bodies are in truth naked.


We are only lightly covered with buttoned cloth; and beneath these pavements are


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Texts adapted from the words of:

VIRGINIA WOOLF HAROLD PINTER JORGE LUIS BORGES MICHAEL HOUELLEBECQ


Book 2  

Book two of three.

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