It is of course precisely in such episodes of mental traveling that writers are known to do good work, sometimes even their best, solving formal problems, getting advice from Beyond, having hypnagogic adventures that with luck can be recovered later on. Idle dreaming is often of the essence of what we do. We sell our dreams.
…and all of a sudden I’m alone with a charming woman and we’re talking a blue streak sitting cross-legged facing each other on the floor in a litter of books and bottles.
Days and days passed, my health picked up, but, as my fever and delirium abated in those comfortable surroundings, my craving for adventure and daring exploits revived and became imperious. At ninety-eight point six everything is boring.
…and arrived at
like love Her voice Her voice,
even the piano
listened with admiration
There were bedbugs in the bed, but they told each other that they were as happy as they could be under the capitalist system.
I wrote a ‘poem’, I scribbled quotation marks everywhere over Fate passing by…