The classifiers of things, by which I mean those scientists whose science is merely to classify, generally don’t realize that what’s classifiable is infinite and thus cannot be classified. But what really astounds me is that they don’t realize there are things hidden in the cracks of knowledge – things of the soul and of consciousness – that can also be classified.

Perhaps because I think too much or dream too much, or perhaps for some other reason, I don’t distinguish between the reality that exists and the world of dreams, which is the reality that doesn’t exist. And so in my ruminations about the sky and the earth, I insert things that aren’t lit up by the sun or trod on by feet – fluid wonders of my imagination.

I gild myself with sunsets I invent, but what I invent is alive in my invention. I rejoice in imaginary breezes, but the imaginary lives while it’s being imagined. I have a soul, according to various hypotheses, and each of these hypotheses has its own soul, which it gives to me.

The only problem is that of reality, as insoluble as it is alive. What do I know about the difference between a tree and a dream? I can touch the tree; I know that I have the dream. What is all this really?

What is all this? It’s that I, alone in the deserted office, can imaginatively live without abstaining from my intelligence. My thinking isn’t interrupted by the vacant desks and the shipping division that’s empty except for brown paper and balls of string. I’m not at my stool but leaning back in Moreira’s comfortable armchair, enjoying a premature promotion. Perhaps it’s the influence of my surroundings that has anointed me with distraction. These dog days make me tired; I sleep without sleeping, for lack of energy. And that’s why I think this way.