Haruki Murakami - "The Wind-up Bird Chronicles"

    ... It was a narrow world, a world that was standing still. But the narrower it became, and the more it betook of stillness, the more this world that enveloped me seemed to overflow with things and people that could only be called strange. They had been there all the while, it seemed, waiting in the shadows for me to stop moving. And every time the wind-up bird came to my yard to win its spring, the world descended more deeply into chaos.
    I rinsed my mouth and went on looking at my face for a time.
    I can't find the image, I said to myself. I'm thirty, I'm standing still, and I can't find the image.