Of course, I don’t know to what extent my soul is really mine. It’s more that I belong to this soul, which is not, as more than one philosopher has said, necessarily even inside me. It’s simply something I don’t know about, and the self is only a part—shaped by a certain practical awareness—of a vast ocean that transcends me and in no way belongs to me, a specimen that has emerged, or is emerging, from an immense sea of nucleic acid. But what’s behind it, and what impulse is expressing itself by means of the acid? That desire, that curiosity, that greed latent in the material particles.

I’m not interested in finding answers anymore, not in the slightest. For now the questions are enough, and maybe I don’t even need them. The discourse has taken this form today precisely because of the things I lack, because for a few moments I glimpsed those fragments of memory, of the soul’s memory, and for a few moments I remembered myself. Meanwhile the rest of my life, outside those moments, grows ever more insubstantial.

January 9

A dream bursts into the empty discourse: