Wincing,
he thinks,
this is it—
it is
time to
speak
up—the
perfect
feeling
does
not
exist.
Unimaginable
hypotheses
can never
be tested.
The most
he thinks,
this is it—
it is
time to
speak
up—the
perfect
feeling
does
not
exist.
Unimaginable
hypotheses
can never
be tested.
The most
extraordinary
thing he can
picture stillthing he can
demonstrating,
is an airport
of light
particles,
a scaffolding
for shadows,
a homely
receptacle
for pure
white silence—
none of
that black
variety, he
figures, since
every soul living
is already
going around
staring pretty
unconscionably
hard at that
kind, maybe
fifteen-to-
twenty
times a
minute.