I am breakfasting. This is the scene I've looked forward to for well over half the night, and over it is a scroll, and on each side of the scroll a tiny and, when examined with an electron microscope, exquisitely beautiful boy. The scroll says, simply, "BREAKFAST," and the food I am eating is various, ridged, involved in itself and tremendous.
I walk out into the Everglades which surround my house and examine them. There are fifteen miles in one direction and fifteen miles in another, each replete with the latest in exquisite dilemmas of beauty. I run my foot along the mud of the nearest area and find it as soft as the skin of my favorite sex partner, Bruno.
The sun is high in the sky by the time I withdraw my foot from the mud. I look at the sun and peel part of my back away to expose what looks to my angry, confused eyes to be Stalin. Stalin yelling at troops, unlawful things full of brutality, the murder of millions. However, he opposed Hitler and that fills me with a certain respect that cannot bridge, however, the gulf between my attraction to my normal back and the repugnance I feel towards this one, which, juncture notwithstanding, I somehow can't feel as my own.
There is evil in the air today, I think to myself, forgetting my flapping back, waving my hair in the wind which soon picks up to such a point that it brings me and my open Stalin up over some rooftops which are quite far from my hovel amid the Everglades and then on through the unattractive realms of the monkeyers, the fragmentary stalwart, the hideous-kidneyed betrayers of soot, the latchkey celebs. Soon I am over New York, which looks especially shiny in this strange air which, I repeat, is evil today, and there is such smell about that I wonder who made things, the world and all its effects and celebs and beauty queens, and I fall into pieces and three of them go right through Angus the Frontiersman, making him do an odd medieval ballet on the pavement to death, and three of them go through Zvi, who is lounging about in his underwear wishing there was something more to this gaudy, fat sun in the sky than balls and balls of sheer precociousness--how difficult, after all, a sun filled with gaunt vitality when it is slick with the grease of its exhumations: the biggest dilemma of all.
That is all, and the story ends. I am nothing, but soon a familiar thought comes to fix me: "I live mostly in the realm of the imagination." I pulse a bit and grow into something quite clumsy: an unordered truth, unwanted, unfinished....
I think it's true of most people, they live in imagination almost only. Some maybe not. Maybe some people live every day in a real way without imagination. They see the TV and when they see it see some colors or not, some guys or girls in colors or not, some movement and buildings and fire and so on. They go outside and see some men and women walking around or sitting still and feeding the pigeons and maybe they know what the pigeon-feeders are thinking and feeling because how many things can you feel when you're feeding some pigeons. Those people don't add to what we see so they're invisible. I think that's true of most people, they're invisible, so maybe in fact most people--we could call them "trash" with unfortunate accuracy--don't see what's imaginative but only what's real, and they just walk around repelling everyone 'cause it's obvious they don't add to the commonweal: repellent.
Myself, when I exit imagination and enter the real and live in it as if it were my birthright, which it is, I get incredibly moved and also scared, and I have to leave pretty much right away, though it's hard to leave that fast and the effort's so great I try to remember, I program myself in odd ways that themselves contribute to the imaginative slick of my life, to stay away from the real and just work, work, work the way I'm able and used to, which is with an abject contemplation based on being spared from reality, originating in that gratefulness.
Now I have rescued myself from a freakish but nice obliteration by means of my funny self-evident spurt of philosophy which means nothing at all but its fact. My life will continue in a freakish and often not-nice way, and things will start in, and breakfasts will soon be glorious in the Everglades once again.