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advantage as I write about amusing ideas. For example, for someone who raises a lot of rabbits in his mind, rabbits couldbe something that gives him the hardest time. If he scoops out something sticky and slimy and transparent from the pond every morning, and imagines that it turns into several rabbits and gives them all the same name, Alice, and imagines that they take care of him and live only for a day like mayflies and hop around the pond, rabbits named Alice will be important creatures in his reality, and dominate him with real power, and he could say what a hard time he has because of the rabbit Alices that never leave his mind, and could be sad one day to find that all his Alices are dead. Although this is a metaphor—the rabbits are a metaphor for ideas or imaginations—the many ideas that come to my mind as I write this actually dominate me like the rabbits that belong to someone who raises the rabbits he scoops out of a pond.
    Anecdotes in my memories and images in my imagination dance on a stage from which time, which flows in one direction, has made its exit. I wave at them, and further, I dance with them. The past is revived in the present, and I pass again through past moments. As I write this, I’ll come face to face with returning scenes from the past and become a part of those scenes, and the scenes will overlap with my present, and I’ll confuse the past, present, and future tenses.
    Anyway, what I thought was a dolphin-shaped tube may have been a little plastic bag someone had thrown away, or perhaps I never saw such a thing as a plastic bag, or went out to the riverside and watched the river one winter day when I lived in a little town in France long ago. But I’ve already said something about a dolphin-shaped tube, and although it’s an unreliable or nearly fabricated story, it becomes a part of this story, as words that are written down and printed out take on certain power and become a part of a certain story.
    But it doesn’t matter if what I think I saw by the river was a dolphin tube or a plastic bag, or if I didn’t see anything at all. What matters more is the sentence, “Colorless green ideas sleep furiously,” which I think came to my mind at the riverside. And recalling the sentence, I think again about writing something about the difficulty of existence, the difficulty of talking about the difficulty of existence, the double difficulty of it, which I think I thought about at the riverside as well.
    But did I, at the riverside, begin, out of nothing, a vague groping in the dark that wasn’t a new, careful search but a groping for a new failure that sought to end up as a failure, and think of a loosely structured story, that turns from a vague groping in the dark into a haze, and in the end comes to nothing, and think that such a story could be effective in writing about the double difficulty mentioned above?
    And did I think that I could have something of an expectation in the fact that in the act of indulging yourself in a game of ideas, not knowing to the end what it is that you’re talking about, and rendering it null, there’s an innocent or a naive pleasure, like that of a game indulged in by a child at play, and think that there’s something about a child playing alone that makes you think that in a way, a solitary game, with everything around you, and further, the world vanishing and leaving you alone, was the only real kind of game?
    And did I think that I could obsess over what it was that I sought to do because it was something I couldn’t figure out, and something useless, and that I wanted to trust the feeling that things upon which such things could exert greater power were awaiting me, and that when you didn’t know what it was that you wanted to write, you could do certain things you couldn’t do when you wrote, fully aware of what it was?
    My mind is all confused again. My thoughts, which raise their heads at once