Marginalia after Schulz

...

  The eternal barrel of memories, an ultra-barrel of myth. The world was to be hit on the head and father was then no more with us. On a sofa in the drawing room, mother was suffering from a migraine and could not come to terms with her dressing, could not cope with the heat, was simply lying on the sofa. Her upper lips were drawn, exposing teeth. She said, Anamnesis. Hocus-pocus. Weightless fabric. Nightmare. In the swelling flood, we were all to be hit on the head and then, I could not come to terms with the madmen.*

*All words from Bruno Schulz's Street of Crocodiles