We take a breath of our American air and we-the-people burst.
That's blues!
The mood would have led to God knows what charade in the auditorium of my senses—the multitude of watching, listening "mes" reacting in all their various ways at once; it might have become a ululation you could have heard on Mars—or frozen as if the head of Medusa had come on stage—or, by that third unanimity, blazed into laughter, revolted ecstasy at ecstasy itself.
The singing woman stopped.
There was a knock.
I yelled, "Come in!" relieved—thinking it might be Paul.
For more than an hour, now, worry over him had cankered me.
(Do you imagine I tell you all that happens, here? I nearly would if I could—it is not that. But the compendium of the eighteen simultaneous trains of consciousness (the intrications and alternations and separate chains that run in a man's mind and that you could see in your own if you tried) would, in a weekend fill up all the books a man might read in his life. I give you hardly the essence, my friend—but only a sample of the aggregate—a biopsy of its own sort.)
A knock, then.
I realized it was the door in the bedroom.
"May I come in?" Yvonne asked.