Do not look back. Down. Without looking behind you. In theater, an actor must go down the stairs without looking at his feet, it is better he collapsed, rather than watching his own steps, and head down under his destiny, time and curvature of the body that he refuses. He is recovering. Something like a reed, which reflects its position straight into the wind, after a curve too steep. You, just as you do not turn around, that alone is important. It's simpler. Your approach is simpler. You can leave a space made of chalk and foggy thinking intertwined, just point straight up the corridor, the doors all closed, half the posters torn down, following which, you can descend the stairs, hitting to the fresh morning air, nothing hold you over.
The sequence of pure thoughts is suspended, and the race resumed with the world that our steps.
The corridor straight, that you must go back, is the last hall of the world before the great plunge into the open Hell these reversed. Its walls of indifference, fragments of speech, posted on walls, gradually loosen, dissolve, and hanging, bent and forgotten in the most absolute detachment. It is possible only in passing, one of us, I admit, in its breakaway, hard, with a shrug, handing her bag, a little of what was the subject of the attention, and is part of this offense, as he is in his power. And unmade all the things of this world.
The flow that we are in the wave and ride it as we are, falling apart and disintegrates, the same movement. Do
not look back. Down. That's the only thing to do. Get home from the bustle of this messy moment in your mind the most distant, do not cross the looks, it should be possible to watch anywhere, during the time that this slump will last, it is very possible that the gaze is fixed far, already almost out, almost in the world, and you, you follow the line taut as a wire between here and elsewhere.
wire is held back by sliding down the stairs and the world is found, six floors below, in a breath of fresh air.
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