And the conversations developed in the void, as if the sentences meant nothing, were intended to mean nothing in any case.

And the way it was told, it was like writing a screenplay. Filling in the gaps. Reading the screenplay, becoming the voices, interrupting and dissecting other voices to move it all on. A chain.

And a sentence, once begun, suddenly remained in suspension, as though frozen… But starting over afterwards, no doubt, at the same point, or elsewhere. It didn't matter. It was always the same conversations that recurred, the same absent voices.

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