Behind The Hieroglyphic Streets There

Everybody Who Says The Same Words Is The Same Person If The Spectra Are The Same Only They Happen Differently In Time, You Dig? But The Time Is Arbitrary. You Pick Your Zero Point Anywhere You Want, That Way You Can Shuffle Each Person's Time Line Sideways Till They All Coincide.

Time Is Never Wasted If You Remember To Bring Along Something To Read.

In The Eighteenth Century It Was Often Convenient To Regard Man As A Clockwork Automaton. In The Nineteenth Century, With Newtonian Physics Pretty Well Assimilated And A Lot Of Work In Thermodynamics Going On, Man Was Looked On As A Heat Engine, About 40 Per Cent Efficient. Now In The Twentieth Century, With Nuclear And Subatomic Physics A Going Thing, Man Had Become Something Which Absorbs X-rays, Gamma Rays And Neutrons.

But On The Way Home Tonight, You Wish You'd Picked Him Up, Held Him A Bit. Just Held Him, Very Close To Your Heart, His Cheek By The Hollow Of Your Shoulder, Full Of Sleep. As It It Were You Who Could, Somehow, Save Him. For The Moment Not Caring Who You're Supposed To Be Registered As. For The Moment, Anyway, No Longer Who The Caesars Say You Are.

"you Are So Close." "to Whom? Margravine, Not Even To Himself. This Place, This Island: All His Life He's Done Nothing But Hop From Island To Island. Is That A Reason? Does There Have To Be A Reason? Shall He Tell You: He Works For No Whitehall, Non Conceivable Unless, Ha, Ha, The Network Of White Halls In His Own Brain: These Featureless Corridors He Keeps Swept And Correct For Occasional Visiting Agents."