Only In The Books Written In Earlier

It Seems To Me Then As If All The Moments Of Our Life Occupy The Same Space, As If Future Events Already Existed And Were Only Waiting For Us To Find Our Way To Them At Last, Just As When We Have Accepted An Invitation We Duly Arrive In A Certain House At A Given Time.

Physicists Now Say There Is No Such Thing As Time: Everything Co-exists. Chronology Is Entirely Artificial And Essentially Determined By Emotion. Contiguity Suggests Layers Of Things, The Past And Present Somehow Coalescing Or Co-existing.

Like Our Bodies And Like Our Desires, The Machines We Have Devised Are Possessed Of A Heart Which Is Slowly Reduced To Embers.

And So They Are Ever Returning To Us, The Dead.

There Is Something Peculiarly Dispriting About The Emptiness That Wells Up When, In A Strange City, One Dials The Same Telephone Numbers In Vain.