When he imagined having lunch with his favorite painter, it played out as follows: a lunch meeting at a shaded outdoor cafe, coffee, a light meal, a few brief casual remarks about a recent opening or exhibition, a beer, a newspaper, a convoluted inner monologue concerning the night before, a syncing of watches, a napkin, a handshake--as if old friends.
His daily life-experience was best described by a persistent thought which tried to filter its way through his head as he walked along Michigan Avenue, how each car in this morning's rush hour seemed to flow directly into him and disappear within the dark, echoing forests of his past instead of harmlessly passing by him, as if he were a portal from which nothing ever returned, though the image of every object hovered before his face, in his wide line of vision, as if on the event horizon of a massive black hole, making it difficult for him to see what was coming and where he was going.
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