But it seems impossible to speak and yet say nothing, you think you have succeeded, but you always overlook something.

Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.

The sky sinks in the morning, this fact has been insufficiently observed.

It is useless not to seek, not to want, for when you cease to seek you start to find, and when you cease to want, then life begins to ram her fish and chips down your gullet until you puke, and then the puke down your gullet until you puke the puke, and then the puked puke until you begin to like it.

In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg. Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?

Don’t wait to be hunted to hide, that was always my motto.

Already all confusion. Things and imaginings. As of always. Confusion amounting to nothing. Despite precautions. If only she could be pure figment. Unalloyed. This old so dying woman. So dead. In the madhouse of the skull and nowhere else. Where no more precautions to be taken. No precautions possible. Cooped up there with the rest. Hovel and stones. The lot. And the eye. How simple all then. If only all could be pure figment. Neither be nor been nor by any shift to be. Gently gently. On. Careful.