The Innocence of Objects, Orhan Pamuk

That only the inhumanity of things is moving us, you still not being capable to transfer this unto your own life An object so unbalanced, so incongruous inside having no center of gravity, no global positioning frustrating all forms of stability The gleeful distortion without which everything would be me simultaneously Something vital that is making that what is me is not succumbing to an absolute reality Now smile at the diffuse light enveloping all Objects of Denial.