....dismissed, perhaps, acknowledging a faint illusory subjective termination—a dream, a terrible dream. Late in the year, October, maybe, no November—no, later still, it was December, telescoping backwards, and it was white, white all around, on the landing in front of the library too, it was white like it was all the same. It was all very white. Yes, yes!
The limitless initial embrace of the unbound color, this absence of color (or all of the colors together, as in, white light, of course) is detailed as significant, complete, absolute. Oh my! But its grasp, oh its grasp is quite unlike its embrace, yes, yes--it is ever fearful to let go. It will not like to let go. It will not ever like to let go. Oh well. There is only ice, she proclaims, she an intruder, a foreigner, like the others, she is not as pale but it is still cold to her—no, of course it is cold to her. They are racist. This is a beautiful place. No, there is nothing here but ice.
It is December, A. It has long since passed the aged autumn of the primary maturation, the glimpse into the dissolving sun—and yes, the weariness, the wariness even, of its disappearance, like, I only perhaps suppose, abandonment. There aren’t even crosses—criss-crosses still—that begin to anticipate and elucidate the murderous pathway into the abandonment of this primary maturation, this sunless containment: this winter is ice and it is only December.
I thought as once Jerome thought, I would lose my voice in such cold, in such vociferous activity—but it was not winter that takes its place in ice but ice that takes its place in winter and I found, at least a while, that I could scream quite well and even, once dejected, faint…..