There are moments when the circumstance is unutterably clear to me—and in these, I know—without respect to the immediate employment of my body or the thing called I.
There are moments when the time-easements I have bought grow clouded.
And then the knowledge escapes arms, legs, cranium, and I.
What man, reared as I was, domiciled in this earth's insanity, has even the intimations, let alone the occasional assurance? And who, attached to his clocks, trains, bells, and the earth's turned shadow, keeps a continual hold upon the vital principle? Very few.
Say it was late.
Say I did not want to sleep.
Say, if you will, I did not want to face my circumstances. It is not so. The space during which I sat on the green sofa smoking my cigarette was what you call ten minutes—an infinity that could not be shortened, made painful, or even touched at any point by measurement.
I picked up the telephone.
The colored girl had a soft voice. "Hello?"
"This is Phil Wylie—is Hattie there?"