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My damn thermostat would not drop below 70º, even at dawn, for three days! So I just changed out of my supremely threadbare approximation of a part of a t-shirt that has been my only garment for these three days, when I was wearing one, and into my huge alpaca sweater, only, and am flitting around with all my doors and windows still open and Beethoven blaring out them because all the neighbors close enough to hear are either deaf and asleep or on vacation.
Then, brothers, it came. Oh bliss, bliss and heaven. I lay all nagoy to the ceiling, my gulliver on my rookers on the pillow, glazzies closed, rot open in bliss, slooshying the sluice of lovely sounds. Oh, it was gorgeousness and gorgeosity made flesh. The trombones crunched redgold under my bed, and behind my gulliver the trumpets threewise silverflamed, and by the door the timps rolling through my guts and out again crunched like candy thunder. Oh, it was wonder of wonders. And then, a bird of like rarest spun heavenmetal, or like silvery wine flowing in a spaceship, gravity all nonsense now, came the violin solo above all the other strings, and those strings were like a cage around my bed. Then flute and oboe bored, like worms of like platinum, into the thick thick toffee gold and silver. I was in such bliss, my brothers. —Anthony Burgess [A Clockwork Orange]And now I shall giddy to bed... confident of ocean air cleaning me as I sleep.
pipe up any time....
