The horses of sleep, like those of the sun, move at so steady a pace, in an atmosphere in which there is no longer any resistance, that it requires some little aerolith extraneous to ourselves(hurled from the azure by what Unknown?) to strike our regular sleep (which otherwise would have no reason to stop, and would continue with a similar motion world without end) and to make it swing sharply round, return towards reality, travel without pause, traverse the regions bordering on life--whose sounds the sleeper will presently hear, still vague but already perceptible even if distorted--and come to earth suddenly at the point of awakening. -Cities of the Plain: Remembrance of Things Past, v.4, Marcel Proust
Posted on: Fri, 08 Aug 2014 05:02:19 +0000
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