I looked down at my hands, and my hands were empty, there
was nothing, and I looked at them for a while, what I was waiting for I don’t
know, my hands, empty, and somewhere outside there were clamouring voices in
the street, inside, I was bent over, looking down at my hands, holding nothing,
and gradually the afternoon sun crept around the circumference of the room, and
I stayed where I was, looking down at my hands, shiftless, empty, and emptied
of everything, in the gathering gloom, the voices sounded until evening then
went away, somewhere, I remained, as the room darkened, and it seemed I had no
shadow, for I had become a shadow, or a shell, looking down at my hands, still
nothing, waiting for nothing, and I knew then I had nothing – now put your ear
close to mine, and you will hear the sound of the sea, the fluting wind over a
low tide of half-buried memories.
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