It happened the first time on an anthill. They rushed frantically toward the river. As if through a magnifying glass. One of these plots begins with a murder. Beads of laughter on his glasses, on the windshield.
Thought is a system, producing systematic eliminations.
This is impossible to explain to artists. It's utterly impossible even to explain it to the man who sits rubbing the crystal eyes of the fish swallowed into the museum's lottery drum. Ball lightning, rocking, froze over my grandfather's glass of vodka and after a few moments crept in through the window, where my grandmother, because of her nearsightedness, took it for one of the demons living in the kitchen in her glass jar which had somehow slipped past the cockroach patrols. No questions exist. Or you don't enumerate them.