And I think that in order to create that language we're going to have to learn how you can go through a looking glass into another kind of perception, in which you have that sense of being united to all things, and suddenly you understand everything. Or perhaps it is too much coffee. As I step down onto the street, a breeze touches my cheek and a human shape flashes by in silence, torso straining forward, wheels on his feet - Rollerblades. Hermes, I think. Then a perfumed bicyclist, straddling her machine, legs pumping, taillight strobing, derailleur clicking softly.
Nothing seems quite what it is.
The clinging ivy has turned a vibrant magenta, softening the relentless geometry of the grey limestone walls and leaded windows of the student dormitories along St. George Street. Scarlet and gold leaves drift to the ground from towering maples, gilding the lawns and sidewalks and gutters. Umbrellas unfurl like spinnakers. Streetlights flicker and then ignite, one by one, like signal fires. For a few moments, I am living in a painting, or perhaps a poem.