Vismar is walkingon a bridge.
He has never seen such a bridge before, he vaguely senses that; he can’tsee the end because the middle bulges up, or is this not the middle all? Theedge? He is going upwards, the concrete doesn’t smooth itself against hisfeet – if this is concrete, if this is an upward slope, if this is a bridge.Everything is so weird, so strangely hazy – also that one can hear nothing,bridges arch above valleys or rivers or sea-bays, and almost always a windblows there. But no wind is blowing here.
And yet, the bridge tenses, he feels the tenseness with his body throughhis legs. The bridge is not his friend – because it moves under him, or is ithim moving on it, is it him moving the bridge? It seems impossible, but hereand now, everything is possible, he feels it faintly, not from in himself atall. The feeling-suggestion comes out of the bridge; Vismar doesn’tunderstand it, so he turns around. This way he can see more, he believes. Butthe bridge bulges up behind him, as well, he cannot see the end. And no oneis walking hereabouts, no cars are rolling, no passers-by pacing by. Vismaris alone on the bridge. Vismar is alone. Vismar.
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