Subject: fiend platitude

From: "Robert Evans" <[email-masked]>
Date: Wed, 13 Sep 2006 12:28:59 +0400

The note was scribbled,the book shut, for I am an intermittent student.
After Monday comes Tuesday, and Wednesdayfollows.
He now holds a glass of fine old brandy in his paw. Isaid life had been imperfect, an unfinishing phrase. How then does light return to the world after the eclipse of thesun?
No cock crowed; nosmoke rose; no train moved. Out we creep from the arch of thecurrant leaves, out into a wider world.
The earth absorbs colour like a spongeslowly drinking water. Yes, but suddenly one hears a clock tick.
The bars deepen themselves between the waves. However, we had our bottle of wine, and under that seduction lostour enmity, and stopped comparing.
If I have towait, I read; if I wake in the night, I feel along the shelf for abook. We who had beenimmersed in this world became aware of another.
Tuesdayfollows Monday: Wednesday, Tuesday. Thewide and dignified sweep of his mind contracted.
How much better is silence; the coffee-cup, the table. No echo comes when I speak, no varied words.
So I thought that night in early autumn when we came together anddined once more at Hampton Court.
It alsotells you how you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to. Yes, but suddenly one hears a clock tick. What city does that stretch of skylook down upon? How wouldhe confine us, make us one, with his red ink, with his very finenib?
I havemade an awful ass of myself and am justly laughed at by any passer-by. Iam the swathed figure in the hairdressers shop taking up only somuch space. And with somepity, some envy and much good will, take your hand and bid you goodnight.
We were extinguished for a moment, went out like sparks in burntpaper and the blackness roared.
But how describe the world seen without a self?
So I was thinking as I came along Shaftesbury Avenue to-night. He now holds a glass of fine old brandy in his paw. Despite theseefforts, the Projects eBooks and any medium they may be on may containDefects. Tuesdayfollows Monday: Wednesday, Tuesday. Listen: a whistle sounds, wheels rush, the doorcreaks on its hinges.
Here we are among thebreadcrumbs and the stained napkins again. I retrieved them from formlessness with words. Then a vapour as ifearth were breathing in and out, once, twice, for the first time. This is moretruly death than the death of friends, than the death of youth.
But nowlet the door open, the glass door that is for ever turning on itshinges. Thewide and dignified sweep of his mind contracted. Time has giventhe arrangement another shake.