Humidity 98%, I walked slowly to buy a newspaper, joining areolas of white hair surrounding islands of tanned scalps, coins from old guys dropped into a box.

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i am in a card game. My cards slip under something on the table and emerge old and mangled. i point this out to the others, who don't believe it. Each of them throws a card against a wall, to which they stick, while mine bounces off and circles the room, landing on top of a chest of drawers, from where it begins to speak.

The ocean roared; a child cried with overlapping circuits of neurons. One neuron could be a member of a number of different circuits; it would be the specific combination in each case that distinguished one circuit from another. Each circuit would contribute to the phenomenon of a memory, so that no single brain cell or exclusively committed group of cells is wholly responsible; instead, the memory would be distributed from his seat at the back of his father's bicycle; an oil tanker crawled across the ocean's upper green lip; a woman wearing a long black dress dragged its hem over damp sand studded with particles of half-buried shells.

The living brain has a surreal fragility; its porcelain surface is laced with delicate arteries that begin as thick cords but quickly branch into finer and finer threads. Looking at the surface of the brain is like looking at a satellite photo of a large city—one immediately senses a function far more complex than what is visible.

I thought of Pablo and Françoise on the beach at Antibes, the old satyr as he came to be known. The soul of Amun was supposed to be enshrined in a serpent-shaped sceptre known as Kem-at-ef (He-who-has-finished-his-moment) which was perhaps our psychological roads and boundaries; he marks the borderlines of our psychological frontiers and marks the territory where the foreign, the alien, begins holding an umbrella over his young mistress' head. Saltwater for blood, he could never drink enough of life.


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