Now, as he aged, a certain cache of memories began to strike him as too absurd or outrageous to have actually occurred, and yet the very unlikelihood of the substance of these recollections is precisely what gave them a sense of credibility, despite the unreliability of his memory, because he knew, to his dismay, that his imagination would be hard pressed to create the lines, shapes and values of these particular shades.
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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