mental explosions that I remember I thought were so wonderful when I’d first seen them on Peotl and Mescaline. I’d said then (when still innocently playing with words) “Ah, the manifestation of multiplicity, you can actually see it, it aint just words” but now it’s “Ah the keselamaroyot you rot”—Till when dawn finally comes my mind is just a series of explosions that get louder and more “multiply” broken in pieces some of them big orchestral and then rainbow explosions of sound and sight mixed.
At dawn also I’ve almost dimmed into sleep three times but I swear (and this is something I remember that makes me realize I dont understand what happened at Big Sur even now) the little boy somehow thumped his foot just at the moment of drowse, to instantly wake me up, wide awake, back to my horror which when all is said and done is the horror of all the worlds the showing of it to me being damn well what I deserve anyway with my previous blithe yakkings about the sufferings of others in books.
Books, shmooks, this sickness has got me wishing if I can ever get out of this I’ll gladly become a millworker and shut my big mouth.
