Only in exceptional cases, when one of my hands is tired from the work of constant crossing-out, slackens, at first lags behind, increasingly weakens, finally lies there, on the desk, and the pen untouched beside it, unopened, likewise lies there, so that the other, the writing hand, in a sudden burst of freedom, improvisation, begins to move across the paper, casts caution aside, outdoes itself in absurdities, madness, becomes boisterous, ever more so, wilder, for so long, until the other hand, neglecting its work of crossing-out, of necessity stirs again, begins to resist and intervenes, tries to put an end to this game, grips the pen, opens it between thumb and index finger and finally begins to cross out, only in these exceptional cases, this failing of the body, do my texts then emerge.
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