Sometimes, W. feels a terrible sickness, he says. He wants to vomit it all up - and not just everything he's eaten, everything he's drunk. Everything: his whole life, all that he is, his past, his present. To expel it. To get it all out, all that has been, as though he were only a foreign body in his own skin.
Everything - but more still, for doesn't he want to vomit up the world, too, everything that has happened, everything that is happening, the very fact of existence? Somehow, he is responsible for it, the catastrophe of the world. Somehow it all begins with him. - 'With you', he says.