507

506

Undifferentiated all at that singular instant

When the plasma yawned to the length

Of a planck in a basking glow--

So my self-sense at the interflicker

Of a cross-walk symbol seemed,

Massless in ungoverned density,

Whole and undone.

505

504
Not to but being
In the rapids at Canal
Apart and immersed in a sensory spray
Disforming a tongued prism
That tints the bannered brick and iron
And instant shards and pools of ebony grace.
No tanged light nor scented word could convey
This daylight scape reorient.

503

502

501
The mirror turned redundant and though lubbers we
Made a sail of the glass in winter
And with iced limbs braced to the hardest edge
Tacked a line in the sea street lane.
(Moon-in-water moment to those across the way).
At our port another wall,
Where old reflection new habited.

500

499

498

497
The paged symbols without heat or color,
Earthly but unworlded entire, sleeping
Unslept from emergence;
Inanimate in organ stillness--
All: but in contemplation's eye.

496
We do not carry lessons to the field of tall grass
Nor instruction there receive--
Though the winded stalks in a whisper's guise
May gossip of the infinite, or the rain to come--
We but hear a measure of our own moment passed.

495

494

493
From inside the space inside the shell
In anguish, all not-space is whorled
To silence in tautness, and small.
The mind consumes its fever
And grows in this diminishment,
Till alone reigning in all substance,
A touchless, palpable fire.

492

491
The cat is dying.
The rain is so soft it seems illusion, but I see the branches reflecting lamplight.

490

489
...Despite the growing presence of electric street illumination, London in resolute municipal creep out of the Realm of Gas, he had begun to discover a structure to the darkness, dating from quite ancient times, perhaps well before there was any city at all--in place all along, and little more ratified by the extreme and unmerciful whiteness replacing the glare-free tones and composite shadows of the old illumination, with its multiplied chances of error. Even venturing out in the daylight, he found himself usually moving from one shadow to another, among quotidian frights which could only become unbearably visible with the passing of lamplighting-time into the lofty electric night.
The purposeful life did not keep him, for some while in fact, from trying to locate somewhere in Great Britain a source of Cyclomite, proceeding, desperately, from such opiated catarrh preparations as Collis Brown's Mixture on to cocainized brain tonics, cigarettes soaked in absinthe, xylene in unventilated rooms, and so on, each proving inadequate, often pathetically so, as a substitute for the reality-modifying explosive he had enjoyed back in his former or Stateside existence.
He had no shame about enlisting the aid of Neville and Nigel, always these days, it seemed, down from University. Each of them was reputed to have at least a thousand pounds a year, which it seemed they spent mostly on drugs and hats. "Here," Nigel greeted him, "do try a spot of 'pinky,' it's ever so much fun, really."
"Condy's fluid," explained Neville--"permanganate disinfectant, which one then mixes with methylated spirits--"
"Got the recipe from an Aussie we met whilst in the nick one Regatta weekend. Came to develop quite a taste for it after a while, though health aspects naturally did occur to us, so we're careful only to allow ourselves one bottle per year."
"Admire your restraint, boys."
"Yes, and tonight's the night, Lewis!" Abruptly producing a rather large bottle filled with a queer purple that Lew could swear was glowing.

--Thomas Pynchon

488

487

486