The Convalescent
The Convalescent

Summary/Abstract: Ooaah! – that’s how I stared at the ceiling, at its never changing lines and hues, every morning of the week. Of course, what we call morning in this neck of the world is the result of the abnormal way of life for which I’m not to blame, but the nature or God or Spinoza or whoever it was that came before me and wound-up (what a word!) the time that we have today. In my private capitalism twenty-four hours is too short a period for one turn of someone’s life. Thirty-six hours would be the minimum, really, because my time, the only money I have, and my life, the only real capital at hand, turn into one another so, so slowly, extremely slowly, like death. Slow, you know. So every day I end up with a couple of hours that, no matter what I do, I can’t turn into anything, this time simply remains time, an apparent surplus of time, and who knows what could become of it?

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