I mustn't think that I don't want to think. If I could keep myself from thinking! I try, and succeed: my head seems to fill with smoke. How serpentine is this feeling of existing, I unwind it, slowly. But though I am the one who continues it, unrolls it. The body lives by itself once it has begun. For example, this sort of painful rumination: I exist, I am the one who keeps it up. It's worse than the rest because I feel responsible and have complicity in it.
Then there are words, inside the thoughts, unfinished words, a sketchy sentence which constantly returns: "I have to fi. They stretch out and there's no end to them and they leave a funny taste in the mouth. “I jump up: it would be much better if I could only stop thinking.
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