I mentioned several days ago that I was writing in a hotel room, and I’d intended to say more about that, but since then I have left the hotel and have returned along the highways to the city where I live, and am writing again in my apartment, which is the same, more or less, as it’d been before I’d begun my trip. By which I mean the objects all seem to be in the same place, nothing has been disturbed, the air seems to be sitting or arranging itself with the same monotony or calm, the noises that reach me from outside are no different than I remembered. Which is what I expected, and which I mention only because there is, I guess, something touching or melancholy to me about the fact, for I know that time has not neglected to do its work on this place (merely because I have been absent), but has continued, even if its effects are not very noticeable, since I was not long enough away for any of my items to have toppled, or collected dust, or otherwise deteriorated, though it’s true that if I look at them I will see that they seem to have lost a vitality of posture (the way things tend to do after they’ve remained in one place, without interference, for longer than they usually do), as if their existence has made them weary. Or as if, by contemplating their surroundings, they have resigned themselves to their own languid wisdom.