Inside the room, Boris tried to get up, to at least move his leg, but without succeeding; he therefore remained immobile.
The atmosphere became syrupy; it even coagulated here and there in big pale clots which slowly passed by, filling up the room and gluing itself to the walls, slowing down his embolism in this way.
The clock, which hung above the big wooden filing cabinet, counted off the minutes in an ever dubious fashion, dissociating them from each other; having arrived at the bottom of the dial, the minute hand stopped altogether, being incapable of following an itinerary so devoid of sense. A very obscure silence, in the midst of which thought itself seemed to have lost its meaning, established itself between the ceiling, the window and the door. Eternity was all consuming.
[A Regicide, Robbe-Grillet, A.]
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