At certain moments I forget my Ego, my body, my bindings, my memories, the past, all impressions and events that led to my departure and all this long journey of evasion and estrangement. It seems to me I've always been there or I just started my existence. But soon neither my existence is a matter of the slightest thought of mine; time, space, now are notions vanished, everything happens without any location, or next or separately or lasting or enduring or earlier or later.
What do I have before me, then?
from "not everything is vigil for the opened eyes"
Buenos Aires, 1928