Because listen carefully, I had no idea what time might be like and didn’t even have any idea that something like time could ever exist. Days and nights crashed over me like waves, all interchangeable, identical, or marked by totally fortuitous differences, a to-ing, and fro-ing where it was impossible to establish any sense or norm. However, in constructing my shell the intention I had for it was already in some sense connected with time, an intention to separate my present from the corrosive dissolution of all presents to keep it out to set it apart. The present landed on me with so many different aspects I could not establish any succession: waves, nights, afternoons, ebbs, winters, quarters of the moon, tides, summer heatwaves: my fear was losing myself in all this, of splitting myself up into as many myselves as there were bits of the present that were dumped on me, layer after layer, and for all I knew might all have been simultaneous, each one inhabited a by a bit of myself that was contemporaneous with all the other bits.

I had to start fixing some signs in this immeasurable continuum, by establishing a series of intervals, in other words, numbers. The calcareous matter I secreted, making it whirl like a spiral on top of itself was precisely that.

*Italo Calvino: Shells and Time

property description:

floors

bedrooms

bathrooms

2

1

2

87400000 CZK

(only cash)