My own corner, that's where I should stay, W. says, and I am staying there. My own corner, with my own interests, which are contracting by the day, W. says. I engage less and less with the world. I've turned away, why is that?
There's an urgency to me, that much is clear. If I don't do it now …, I tell him. But do what? What's there to do?
My own corner, that's where I'm staying, he can see it. I'm like a prisoner in a cell that doesn't allow him to stand up. I'm crabbed, hunched - there are terrible constraints.
It's driving me crazy, anyone can see that, but still. Day after day, there's a kind of advance, that's what I tell him. I get a little deeper, the night gets a little more black …
But the night is also what allows me to see, isn't that it? Blindness becomes a kind of sight; constraint a version of liberation. Sometimes I feel like a dreadful liar, I tell him; sometimes I feel on the verge of truth.
And what's he to make of it all?, W. wonders. What's his place in all this? Somehow, obscurely, he feels it's his problem. Somehow, I've become his problem to solve.
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