Solip

Начало книги

Bending limbs in dark like this is only cautionary movement. Were I to lock up, creak to a slow, I would be nothing but a gravid caterpillar within my womb, self-entombed and shallow breath presumed. To die! My father spake of me with wet eyes on evenings salted cinnamon; the oven! The oven, he said. How he wished he could stick me in it.

There is a room.

Or to place myself in time: Years. A here. Ensconced. Within a stripping of skin. Within a way of asking.

And to time myself in place: A perception of me and limit of me is something I cannot grasp. I have not hands small enough.

More?

Games like memory and sense went gone years ago. I've grown bigger.

How those that have roaming space delimit that place until it's plainly a set of compartments to move through.

In a wide gutted prime there are corners, grime. Six planes or ways that stop. In a box. Room? I've felt only five. Room? A room as a well is the ocean.

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