Before the tsunami arrives, before big one arrives, before the capsizing blow, before the tsunami, the sea recedes, for a time that is maybe short or very long. The sea recedes, it leaves sand. It leaves swamp. It leaves a huge feeling of depression, the sense of not being there, the sense that everything is finished, and that it may never begin again.
Well, I have the impression that in this passage, we are in the undertow and I can feel that this undertow is preparing a comeback so overwhelming, so frightening, that we do don't even have the guts to think about it, the guts to imagine it. You can feel it around, on the train, on the bus, in the streets, you feel it distinctly, this sense of every energy receding, of depression, the cynicism - the only thing that remains in our culture - but a cynicism made of fragments of desperation, of moments, of deja vu, of an inexplicable, unspeakable word.
Well, the undertow, the cynicism, the depression, the sensation of not being able to coordinate will and action anymore. The sensation of an incapacity of the body to move, to perform actions for desire, for pleasure, for communication, simply for freedom, joy of being there, all this has vanished, finished. [...]
Wait for the tsunami, wait but great ready, because you'll have to think of something, what clothes to wear, a gesture to make, the moment before the wave finally wipes you out.