Less Time

 Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account of everything,
there you have it.
 I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous as my fingers and some
others; I've distributed some pamphlets to the plants, but not all were willing to accept them.
 I've
kept company with music for a second only and now I no longer know what to think of suicide, for
if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the
re-entrance is on the other.
 You see what you still have to do.
 Hours, grief, I don't keep a
reasonable account of them; I'm alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby, or rather no
one passes (underline passes).
 You don't know this man? It's Mr.
 Same.
 May I introduce Madam
Madam? And their children.
 Then I turn back on my steps, my steps turn back too, but I don't
know exactly what they turn back on.
 I consult a schedule; the names of the towns have been
replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to me.
 Shall I go to A, return to B,
change at X? Yes, of course I'll change at X.
 Provided I don't miss the connection with boredom!
There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah! how beautiful the parallels are under God's
perpendicular.

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