As the siren grew louder in the neighborhood and interrupted his morning coffee and the serenity of his mind which had been stuck in that moment preceding the moment the blossoming siren had first pushed through a needled, leafy barrier of stagnant thought like a crocus in the flower bed (he'd been staring at the damp lilacs just beyond the front window made deeper in purple hue by the morning rain), he silently promised someone, anyone, that he would return to looking, remembering against his will what the great American poet had written: No idea but in things.
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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