Here I Am

I grow warm, I begin to feel happy. There is nothing extraordinary in this, it is  a small happiness of Nausea: it spreads at the bottom of the viscous puddle, at the bottom of our time---the time of purple suspenders and broken chair seats; it is made of wide, soft instants, spreading at the edge, like an oil stain. No sooner than born, it is already old, it seems as though I have known it for twenty years.

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I lost my Marble Memo. Thank God.