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The words by this time didn’t matter. Everyone was full, and at that point of fatigue when the careful enunciation of any word or group of words will load it or them with a rocking pile of meaning which everyone stands round with baited breath hoping to catch.

Thought:

“There is between sleep and us something like a pact, a treaty with no secret clauses, and according to this convention it is agreed that, far from being a dangerous, bewitching force, sleep will become domesticated and serve as an instrument of our power to act. We surrender to sleep, but in the way that the master entrusts himself to the slave who serves him.”

Maurice Blanchot

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