Friday, 31 July 2009

Haruki Murakami

This person, this self, this me, finally, was made somewhere else. Everything had come from somewhere else, and it would all go somewhere else. I was nothing but a pathway for the person known as me.

Then it occured to me to worry about the air.

The mere act of opening my eyes was an impossibility.

I had to make this thing I called 'I'- or, rather, make the things that constituted me.

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