*predmeti zla*

АНА3

(c) Ana R.

I tear myself from the window and stumble across the room; I glue myself against the looking glass. I stare at myself, I disgust myself: one more eternity. Finally I flee from my image and fall on the bed. I watch the ceiling, I’d like to sleep.
Calm. Calm. In can no longer feel the slipping, the rustling of time. I see pictures on the ceiling.
First rings of light, then crosses.
They flutter.
And now another picture is forming, at the bottom of
my eyes this time. It is a great, kneeling animal.

Jean Paul Sartre “Nausea”

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