I am tempted to turn all the lights off and to listen to the clock. Some screwdrivers obscured by paper. My wallet behind the screen. It seems someone called Geraldine Harrison lived here before me. She never redirected her mail. I am keeping her letters for the time being, but shall eventually throw them away. The beer bottle is already gone. The clock is ticking exceptionally loudly. Why have I never noticed it before? Crickets in the garden. The shrill sound of oxygen in my ears. This table is exhausting me. I can only intermittently discover other places within it. I have lost all hope of doing this easily. Nothing will come of these efforts, like the effluvia of molluscs washed up on foreign beaches, twitching in the sand, roughly pecked at by birds, turning black and blue, shiny, swollen and stinky beneath the sun. These in turn resemble nothing more than the veiny edges of my eyes once the pupils have been forcibly removed.

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