Just a flicker

After Parisi left, Y and M sat in the dark without speaking for a time. For Y at least it was as if the Real itself had just fallen away, what he had thought was real, a universe whose physical laws few people better understood; now he saw something else, something very different, and it stretched out in every direction. In the first he had enjoyed a sense of genuine agency, adapted though it was in almost every way to the limits of the contemporary life-world. In the second, at least as he began to take its measure, he felt like something vastly reduced, at least in a metaphysical perspective, like he was just another binary digit in the unmappable array of post late whatever-it-was, a switch that was always only either on or off, a one or a zero, just part of the flickering of one of its obscure subroutines.

The Italian Novel

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