Confused

He sat inside, and he had a conscience. The clouds rushed about like a mysterious bird, but here inside there was a ceiling and the yellow electric light of a lightbulb. He frowned and was writing something. Night roamed in the window, and the moon condescended to appear early, as was its custom, penetrating every point of soul and body.

A slow, steady knock forced him to stand up and open the door. He thought it was a dream, but sleep had not come this early in a long time. The sleep only howled and hid at night, and in the morning it would cover his eyes with its palms and continue to howl.

Behind the door, the darkness was silent. He was used to opening up to it upon a knock without a second thought. With the darkness he felt at peace, and the thought that it was time to leave did not come right away. After all, someone had just knocked on the door. And he had just opened it. Before this thought arrived, a sentence had gathered along a chain of words, and one could tell from the eyes how some useless word could completely unravel you. That is why when this thought finally did arrive, he suddenly realized that, little by little, unnoticed, he had turned into a duck. And so he now stared silently into the mirror, looking pouted. He thought about the first reason or root cause, when a thing is exhausted, and about the second, when it is about nothing at all. And so he stood in the middle of the room without closing the door, looking around into the incomprehensible mystery and serenity of the Earth launched into space, even though he had no idea that you existed.