Yes, i who was so fond of sitting on the banks of the tiber in rome, or in the evening, in barcelona, of walking a hundred times up and down the ramblas, i who near angkor, on the island of the baray of prah-kan, saw a banyan tree knotting its roots around the chapel of the nagas, i am here, i am living in the same second as these card players, i am listening to a negress singing while the feeble night prowls outside.
The record has stopped.
Night has entered, smooth, hesitant.
Nausea
