Now, when happiness or anger happened, she'd run to the clock and watch the seconds in vain. Or, even when nothing hurt, if she stood in front of the clock watch ing it, whatever she wasn't feeling was also greater than the minutes counted on the clock. An other thing: if something hurt and if she watched the hands of the clock while it hurt, she'd see that the minutes counted on the clock passed and the hurt kept on hurting. Whenever she told Rute secrets, for example, she'd then get angry with Rute. She would never allow herself to say, even to her father, that she never managed to catch "the thing." Precisely the things that really mattered she couldn't say. Yes, I know the air, the air! But it was no use, it didn't explain things. Between her and the objects there was something, but whenever she caught that something in her hand, like a fly, and then peeked at it-though she was care ful not to let anything escape-she only found her own hand, rosy pink and disappointed. She closed her eyes and walked, hands outstretched, until she came to a piece of furniture. She walked on tiptoe only treading on the dark floorboards. She twirled around and stopped still, watching without cu riosity the walls and ceiling that spun and melted away.But suddenly the day was wound up and everything spluttered to life again, the typewriter trotting, her father's cigarette smoking, the There was a great, still moment, with nothing inside it.And she could smell as if it were right beneath her nose the warm, hard packed earth, so fragrant and dry, where she just knew, she just knew a worm or two was having a stretch before being eaten by the hen that the people were going to eat. Leaning her forehead against the cold and shiny window pane she gazed at the neighbor's yard, at the big world of the hens-that-didn't-know-they-were-going-to-die.The three sounds were connected by the daylight and the squeaking of the tree's little leaves rubbing against one another radiant. Amidst the clock, the type writer and the silence there was an ear listening, large, pink and dead. What did the wardrobe say? clothes-clothes-clothes.
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